,.^^ ,' % 






<^ 



'U. V 



,H -Ta 












V .0'' -o, . 



■^- .<^^ 



s'^ 



.^• 



.* .^^' 



^^ 






-r-' 



^^^ V 






. 'f. 



■"^o- A^' 



^^ 



V 1 * 



^0 -^H 






% 












^0O. 



^*. 



•*^ 







% * ') s ^ ^^ 



\^ 



,A^^' '^r 






%/' i}''^''-'^-^''^ 



.^^'^ ■"' 



■?,,"' 



-.,^, 



1^ 



V .^0 






"^A v-^ 






'^^.-^^' 
-.s^ % 



,.^^' ■% 



•^c. 






"^A V^' 






il^ * « 1 



\\s 












^>^^.^..^ '^ 




^^" -^^ 






xOO 



-^0 






^^. .-V 



^ * .V. 



•-•V: 




^:> 






^ , ,K ■* ^ 






0, .^^f^/. 



%/ 



I 1 A 






V^ 

x^^^. 



>-_ A 









^ *i di A 






-',. .-^^ 



^/*,t:'- .p" 



ex *'-..'^' 






'0 ^^ ,^0- 



^ 'i^t- 



&aanU ^(^^^'^ 



J^^M.^^ yfrs^^ 



LAUEEL LEAYES: 



A ®ia^3?aiEs 



Ma\sn bs t\t Iritirts at i\t hit Pes. ©ipolr, 



EDITED 



ED BY^rin^ 

MARY E. HEWITT. 



^- 



'"■■J 



ILLUSTRATED 



NEW YORK: 

LAMPORT, BLAKEMAN & LAW; 
No. 8 Park Place. 

1854. 



L. 



EXCHANGE 

MAY 24 1944 j 

Serial Record Divisi 
ThsLitiiu, 'jtloi'! 




T5 



^2>^ 






PUBLISHER'S ADVERTISEMENT. 



This volume, now presented to the public under the 
title of Laurel Leaves, was originally published as 
" The Memorial ;" with the hope of creating a fund, from 
the proceeds of the sale, for the purpose of erecting a 
monument to the memory of the late lamented Mrs. 
Frances Sargent Osgood ; but having failed in its object, 
in consequence of the retarded period at which it was 
issued from the press, the stereotype plates of the work 
were subsequently proposed for sale, and purchased by the 
present publishers, who now offer it as a suitable Gift 
Book for the Holiday season, and an appropriate monu- 
ment to her whom it was intended to commemorate. 

L, B. & h. 



lister; ffiE king tn i^n 

jTruitngB unit hlnniH; 
%^ik tljB hixh sitig tn tjitJ 

(Ddb: tljtf tmnt 

(gmblBms nrB tljM nf tliq 

fonxn nf tljB upprr skit, 
(0 lnrt| nni ilntnM, 

3ii t|iB still mntEB Ijm; 

SmngA mt mt^ 
W)fm tliBtt nrj toigljt nnJr rlnr, 

^ittnrBS nf i^m 

3nliii JIbuL 



3?ortlatiti, il^e., ^us., 1850. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 

Inscription : By Jolin Neal. , 3 

Proem: By the Editor 11 

Fragment of an Unfinished Poem : By K P. Willis 12 

Prances Sargent Osgood : By Rufus AV. Griswold 13 

Letter from the Hon. R. H. Walworth, LL. D 31 

The Fhght of the Falcon : By Mary E. Hewitt 35 

" Heaven lies about us in our Infancy :" By R. H. Stoddard 36 

The Angel of Death : By George Aubrey, Bishop of Jamaica 3*7 

Remembrance : By S. G. G-oodrich 39 

The Snow Image — A Childish JMiracle :' By Nathaniel Hawthorne 41, 

The Blessed Rain : By Lydia Huntley Sigourney 59 

My Friends : By Alfred B. Street 61 

The Resurrection : By George Lunt 64 

Admiration : By the Rev. E. L. Magoon 65 

A Mountain Castle : By John R. Thompson 73 

Rehcs : By James T. Fields 14 

The Pm-e Spot in the Heart : By G. P. R. James 75 

A Plea for Dreams and Apparitions : By Ernest Helfenstein. 77 

Love and Death : By Augustine Duganne 98 

A Lament : By Mrs. Harrington 99 

Our Pearl : By Mary L. Seward ; 101 

Thoughts and Suggestions : By the Author of " Acton," 103 

The Prisoner of Perote : By Estelle Anna Lewis. , 108 

Cattle in Summer: By Mary E. Hewitt Ill 

To a Picture : By R. S. Chilton 112 

" The Beautiful is Yanished :" By C. D. Stuart 113 

The Rose-Tree : From the German of Starke 115 

Leonora Thinking of Tasso 122 

Stanzas : By Mary E. Brooks 123 

Incidents of Life : By the Hon. J. Leander Starr 125 

" Our Friendship is a Vanished Dream :" By Elizabeth Bogart 148 

In Memory of Mrs. Osgood : By Emily Waters 151 



PAGE. 

The Passage of the Jordan : By Alice B. Neal 153 

A Story of the Cape de Verdes : By the Author of '• Kaloolah," « The 

Berber," &c 155 

Fernside : By George "W. Dewey 161 

To Him " whose Heart-strings were a Lute :" By Sarah Helen Whitman. .163 

A Story of Calais : By Richard B. Kimball 165 

My Garden : By Emma C. Embury 188 

Song : By George H. Boker 191 

Eleanor Wilmot, or the Ideal : By Louise Olivia Hunter 193 

The Pilot : By Mary E. Hewitt 211 

The Waves : By Bayard Taylor 213 

Obhvion: By J. H. Hewitt 215 

The Phoebe Bird : By Carohne Cheesebro' 217 

A Requiem : By Mrs. Richard B. Kimball 240 

A Reverie : By Rev. Ralph Hoyt 241 

Gifts for the Grave : By Elizabeth G..Barber 243 

Reminiscences of Venice : By Miner K Kellogg 245 

A Memory of Frances Sargent Osgood : By William C. Richards 250 

Absence : By the Rt. Rev. George W. Doane, D. D., LL. D 251 

The Blind Fidler : By Herman S. Saroni 253 

Song : By George P. Morris 274 

Tlie Lost Bird : By WiUiam Gihnore Simms, LL. D 275 

Tlie South of France : By Charles G. Leland .277 

Prometheus : By Anne C. Lynch 283 

Child and Blossoms : By Charles G. Eastman 284 

Sonnet— From the City : By Mary E. Hewitt 285 

Sonnet : By R. S. Chilton 286 

Three Midsummer Evenings : By E. Fanny Haworth 287 

Pygmalion : By Professor Gillespie 325 

Rambles in Greenwood : By Frederic Saunders 329 

Life — Its Seasons : By Catherine Mathews Rhodes 332 

Moina : By Mary E. Hewitt 335 



PROEM. 



lY MART K. HEWITT. 



She sleeps in peace till Christ at last shall raise her, 
The beautiful, whom countless hearts held dear — 

Speak low— ^we come to bury, not to praise her 
Who was so cherished while she lingered here. 

The flowers around are of her sweetness telling. 
The soft wind whispers of her childlike ways — 

Heart ! have thy will, and let thy memories swellin 
Pour forth in loving words her right of praise 



s» 



A fount of beauty all her hfe was filling, 

And ever the sweet thoughts her lips betrayed 

Fell on the soul like Persia's dew, distilling 
So pure, it leaves no rust upon the blade. 

And evermore her song exultant ringing, 

Eose on strong pinions from her heart of care ; 

Still upward, upward, like a skylark singing. 
Till her voice joined with seraphs in the air. 

Her sister angels missed her long from heaven. 
They missed her harp harmonious from the sky; 

And thus, upon a holy Sabbath even, 

They bore her to their glorious home on high. 



And now, tearful sisters of the lyre, 

bard, and sage, raise we " the stone of fame" 

To her who wrought the lay with minstrel fire, 
And left to earth her song and blameless name. 



12 FRAGMENT OF AN UNFINISHED POEM. 



FRAGMENT OF AN UNFINISHED POEM. 

BY N. P. -WILLIS. 

• 

That she we love is witli us here no more, 
We tearfully and mournfully may say — 
But, for ourselves we weep, and not for her ! 
Like one uplifted in a march by night. 
And borne on to the morning, 't is to her 
But an unwearied minute to the dawn, 
While we, with torn feet, on the darkling way, 
Follow to that same home where she 's at rest. 
Waiting to give us welcome. 

Mourning mother ! ' 

The voice, within the soft lips where your love 
Look'd for its music, is all hush'd — we know ! 
The roses that it parted have grown pale ! 
But still, perhaps, with its accustom'd tones, 
It lends her sweet thoughts utterance, where she is ; 
And oh, while in the softer air of Heaven, 
It unlearns only its complaining, say. 
Is 't well to wish, that, even to the ears 
That cannot sleep with aching for its music, 



'T were audible again ? 



# 

FRANCESL SARGENT OSGOOD. 13 



FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 

BY RUFUS WILMOT GRISWOLD. 

From the beginning of our intellectual history -women have done far more 
than their share in both creation and construction. The -worshipful Mrs. Brad- 
street, -who two hundred years ago held her court of wit among the classic 
groves of Harvard, -was in her day — the day in -which Spenser, Shakspeare, 
and jVIilton sung — the finest poet of her sex -whose verse "was in the English 
language ; and there -was little extravagance in the title besto-wed by her Lon- 
don admirers, when they printed her works as those " of the Tenth Muse, 
recently sprung up in America." In the beginning of the present century we 
had no bard to dispute the cro-wn with Elizabeth To-wnsend, whose " Ode to 
Liberty " commanded the applause of Southey and Wordsworth in their best 
days ; whose " Omnipresence of the Deity " is declared by Dr. Cheever to be 
worthy of those great poets or of Coleridge ; and who still lives, beloved and 
reverenced, in venerable years, the last of one of the most distinguished fami- 
lies of New England. 

More recently, Maria Brooks, called in " Tlie Doctor" Jfaria del Occidente, 
bm'st upon the world with " Zophiel," that splendid piece of imagination and 
passion which stands, the vindication of the subtlety, power and comprehen- 
sion of the genius of woman, justifying by comparison, the skepticism of Lamb 
when he suggested, to the author of " The Excursion," whether the sex had 
" ever produced any thing so great." Of our living and more strictly contem- 
porary female poets, we mention with unhesitating pride IVIi-s. Sigom-ney, Mrs. 
Oakes Smith, Mrs. Hewett, Mrs. Whitman, Mrs. Welby, Alice Carey, " Edith 
May," Miss Lynch, and Miss Clarke, as poets of a genuine inspiration, display- 
ing native powers and capacities in art such as in all periods have been held 
sufficient to insm'e to their possessors lasting fame, and to the nations which 
they adorned the most desu-able glory. 

It is Longfellow who says, 

" What we admire in woman, 

Is her affection, not her intellect." 

The sentiment is unworthy a poet, the mind as well as the heart claims sym- 
pathy, and there is no sympathy but in equality ; we need in woman the com- 

2 



14 FRANCES SARGENf OSGOOD. 

pletion of our own natures; that her finer, clearer, and purer vision should 
pierce for us the mysteries that are hidden from our o^vii senses, strengthened, 
but dulled, in the rude shocks of the out-door world, from which she is screen- 
ed, by her pursuits, to be the minister of God to us ; to win us by the beauti- 
ful to whatever in the present life or the immortal is .deserving a great 
ambition. We care little for any of the mathematicians, metaphysicians, or 
pohticians, who, as shamelessly as Helen, quit their sphere. Intellect in wo- 
man so directed we do not admire, and of affection such women are incapa- 
ble. Tliere is something divine in woman, and she whose true vocation it is 
to write, has some sort of inspiration, which relieves her from the processes and 
accidents of knowledge, to display only wisdom, in all the range of gentleness, 
and all the forms of grace. The equality of the sexes is one of the absurb 
questions which have arisen from a denial of the distinctions of their faculties 
and duties — of the masculine energy from the feminine refinement. The ruder 
sort of women cannot apprehend that there is a distinction, not of dignity, but 
of kind ; and so, casting aside their own eminence, for which they are too base, 
and seekuig after ours, for which they are too weak, they are hermaphroditish 
disturbers of the peace of both. In the main our American women are free 
from tliis reproach ; they have known their mission, and have carried on the 
threads of civility through the j^ears, so strained that they have been melodi- 
ously vocal with every breath of passion from the common heart. We turn 
from the jar of senates, from politics, theologies, philosophies, and aU forms of 
intellectual trial and conflict, to that portion of our literature which they have 
given us, coming like dews and flowers after glaciers and rocks, the hush of 
music after the tragedy, silence and rest after turmoil of action. The home 
where love is refined and elevated by intellect, and woman, by her separate 
ind never-superfluous or clashing mental activity, sustains her part in the life- 
harmony, is the vestibule of heaven to us ; and there we hear the poetesses 
repeat the songs to which they have listened, when wandering nearer than we 
may go to the world in which humanity shall be perfect again, by the tpion 
in all of aU power and goodness and beauty. 

The finest intelUgence that woman has in our time brought to the ministry 
of tlie beautiful, is no longer with us. Frances Sargent Osgood died in New- 
York, at fifteen minutes before three o'clock, in the afternoon of Sunday, 
the twelfth of May, 1850. These words swept like a surge of sadness wher- 
ever there was grace and gentleness and sweet affections. AU that was in her 
life was womanly, " pure womanly," and so is all in the undying words she left 
us. This is her distinction. 

Mrs. Osgood was of a family of poets. Mrs. Anna Maria Wells, whose abili- 
ties are illustrated in a volume of " Poems and Juvenile Sketches" published 
in 1830, is a daughter of her mother; Mrs. E. D. Harrington, the author of va- 
rious graceful compositions in verse and prose, is her youngest sister ; and Mr. 
A. A. Locke, a brilhant and elegant writer, for many years connected with the 
pubhc journals, w^as her brother. She was a native of Boston, where her father, 
Mr. Joseph Locke, was a highly accomplished merchant Her earher fife, 



FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 15 

however, was passed principally in Hingham, a village of peculiar beauty, well 
calculated to arouse the dormant poetry of the soul ; and here, even in child- 
hood, she became noted for her poetical powers. In their exercise she was 
rather aided than discouraged by her parents, who were proud of her genius 
and sympatliized with all her aspirations. The unusual merit of some of her 
first productions attracted the notice of Mrs. Child, who was then editing a 
Juvenile Miscellany, and who foresaw the reputation which her young contri- 
butor afterwards acquired. Employing ihe nomme de plume of " Florence," 
she made it widely familiar by her numerous contributions in the Miscellany, 
as well as, subsequently, for other periodicals. 

In 1834 she became acquainted with Mr. S. S. Osgood, the painter — a man 
of genius in his profession — whose life of various adventure is full of romantic 
interest : and while, soon after, she was sitting for a portrait, the artist told 
her his strange vicissitudes by sea and land ; how as a sailor-boy he had 
climbed the dizzy maintop in the storm ; how in Europe he followed with liis 
palette in the track of the flute-playing Goldsmith ; and among the 

Antres vast and deserts idle, 
Rough quarries, rocks, and hiUs whose heads touch heaven, 

of South America, had found in pictures of the Crucifixion, and of the Libera- 
tor Bolivar — the rude productions of his untaught pencil — passports to the 
hearts of the peasant, the partizan, and the robber. She listened, hke the fair 
Venetian ; they were married, and soon afrer went to London, where Mr. Os- 
good had sometime before been a pupil of the Royal Academy. 

During this residence in the Great Metropolis, which lastled fouryears, Mr. 
Osgood was successful in his art — painting porti-aits of Lord Lyndhurst, Thomas 
Campbell, Mrs. Norton, and many other distinguislied characters, which secured 
for him an enviable reputation — and Mrs. Osgood made herself known by her 
contributions to the magazines, by a miniature volume entitled " The Casket 
of Fate,"' and by the collection of her poems published by Edward Churton, in 
1839, under the title of "A Wreath of Wild Flowers from New England." 
She was now about twenty-seven years of age, and this volume contained all 
her early compositions which then met the approval of her judgment. Among 
them are many pieces of grrace and beauty, such as belong to joyous and hope- 
ful girfHood, and one, of a more ambitious character, under the name of " Elfri- 
da" — a dramatic poem founded upon incidents in early English history — in 
which there are signs of more strength and tenderness, and promise of greater 
achievement, though it is without the unity and proportion necessary to emi- 
nent success in this kind of writing. 

Among her attached friends here — a circle that included the Hon. Mrs. Nor- 
ton, the Rev. Hobart Gaunter, Archdeacon Spenser, the late W. Cooke Tay- 
lor, LL.D., and many others known in the various departments of literature — 
was the most successful dramatist of the age, James Sheridan Knowles, who 
was so much pleased with " Elfrida," and so confident that her abOities in this 
hne, if duly cultivated, would enable her to win distinction, that he lu-ged upon 
her the composition of a comedy, promising himself to superintend its produc- 
tion on the stage. She accordingly wrote " The Happy Release, or The Tri- 




nmphs of Love," a play in three acts, which was accepted, and waa to have 
been brought out as soon as she could change slightly one of the scenes, to suit 
the views of the manager as to effect, when intelligence of the death of her 
father suddenly recalled her to the United States, and thoughts of writing for 
the stage were abandoned for new interests and new pursuits. 

Mr. and Mrs. Osgood arrived in Boston early in 1840, and they soon after 
came to New- York, where they afterward resided ; though occasionally absent, 
as .the pursuit of his profession, or ill health, called Mr. Osgood to other parts 
of the country. Mrs. Osgood was engaged in various literary occupations. She 
edited, among other books, " The Poetry of Flowers, and Flowers of Poetry," 
(New- York, 1841,) and "The Floral Offering," (Philadelphia, 1847,) two ridily 
embellished souvenirs; and she was an industrious and very popular writer for, 
the literary magazines and otlier miscellanies. 

She was always of a fragile constitution, easily acted upon by whatever 
affects health, and in her latter years, except in the more genial seasons of the 
spring and autumn, was frequently an mvalid. In the winter of 1 847-8 she 
suffered more than ever previously, but the next winter she was. better, and 
her husband, who was advised by his physicians to discontinue for a while the 
practice of his profession, availed himself of the opportunity to go in pursuit 
of health and riches to the mines of the Pacific. He left New- York on the fifth 
of February, 1849, and was absent one year. Mrs. Osgood's health was variable 
during the summer, which she passed chiefly at Saratoga Springs, in the com- 
pany of a family of intimate friends ; and as the colder months came on, her 
strength decayed, so that before the close of November she was confined to 
her apartments. She bore her sufferings with resignation, and her natural 
hopefulness cheered her all the while, with remembrances that she had before 
come out with the flowers and the embracing airs, and dreams that she would 
again be in the world with nature. Two or three weeks before her death her 
husband carried her in his arms, like a child, to a new home, and she was happier 
than she had been for months, in the excitement of selecting its furniture, brought 
in specimens or patterns to her bedside. " We shall be so happy .'" was her salu- 
tation to the few friends who were admitted to see her ; but they saw, and her 
physicians saw, that her life was ebbing fast, and that she would never again 
see the brooks and green fields for which she pined, nor even any of ti^ apart- 
ments but the one she occupied of her own house. I wrote the terrible truth 
to her, in studiously gentle words, reminding. her that in heaven there is richer 
and more delicious beauty, that there is no discord in the sweet sounds there, 
no poison in the perfume of the flowers there, and that they know not any sor- 
row who are with Our Father. She read the brief note almost to the end 
silently, and then turned upon her pillow like a child, and wept the last tears 
that were in a fountain which had flowed for every grief but hers she ever 
knew. '' I cannot leave my beautiful home," she said, looking about upon the 
souvenirs of many an affectionate recollection ; " and my noble husband, and 
Lily and May !" These last are her children. But the sentence was confirmed 
by other friends, and she resigned herself to the will of God. The next even- 
ing but one, a young girl went to amuse her, by making paper flowers for her, 



FRAN-CES SARGENT OSGOOD. 1*? 

and teaching her to make them ; and she wrote to her these verses — her dying 
song : 

You've woven roses round my way, Pm going through the Eternal gatei 

And gladdened all my beiiig ; M-e June's sweet roses blow ; 

How much I thank you none can say 'Death's lovely angel leads me there — 
S ave only the All-seeing. And it is sweet to go. 

May 7th, 1850. 

At the end of five days, in the afternoon of Sunday, the twelfth of May, as 
gently as one goes to sleep, she withdrew into a better world. 

On Tuesday her remains were removed to Boston, to be interred in the ceme- 
tery of Mount Auburn. It was a beautiful day, in the fulness of the spring, 
mild and calm, and clouded to a solemn shadow. In the morning, as the com- 
pany of the dead and hving started, the birds were singing what seemed to 
her friends a sadder song than they were wont to sing ; and, as the cars flew 
fast on the long way, tlie trees bowed their luxuriant foliage, and the flowers in 
the verdant fields were swung slowly on their stems, filling the an* with the 
gentlest fragrance ; and the streams, it was fancied, checked their turbulent 
speed to move in sympathy, as from the heart of natm-e tears might flow for a 
dead worshipper. God was thanked that all the elements were ordered so, 
that sweetest incense, and such natural music, and reverent aspect of the silent 
world, should wait upon her, as so many liearts did, in this last journey. She 
slept all the wliile, nor waked when, in the evening, in her native city, a few 
famihar faces bent above her, with difficult looks through tears, and scarcely 
audible words, to bid farewell to her. On Wednesday she was buried, with 
some dear ones who had gone before her — beside her mother and her daugh- 
ter — in that' City of Rest, more sacred now than all before had made it, to 
those whose spii-its are attuned to Beauty or to Sorrow — those twin sisters, so 
rarely parted, imtil the last has led the first to Heaven. 

The character of Mrs. Osgood, to those who were admitted to its more mi- 
nute observance, illustrated the finest and highest qualities of intelligence and 
virtue. In her ruanners, there was an almost infantile gaiety and vivacity, 
with the utmost simphcity and gentleness, and an unfailing and indefectable 
grace, that seemed an especial gift of nature, unattainable, and possessed only 
by her and the creatures of our imaginations whom we call the angels. The 
delicacy of her organization was such that she had always the quick sensibility 
of childhood. The magnetism of life was round about her, and her astonish- 
ingly impressible faculties were vital in every part with a polarity toward 
beauty, all the various and changing rays of which entered into her conscious- 
ness, and were refracted in her conversation and action. Though, from the 
generosity of her nature, exquisitely sensible to applause, she had none of 
those immoralities of the intellect which impair the nobleness of impulse — no 
unworthy pride, or vanity, or selfishness — nor was her will ever swayed from 
the line of truth, except as the action of the judgment may sometimes have 
been iiTegular from the feverish play of feeling. Her friendships were quickly 
formed, but Hmited by the number of genial hearts brought within the sphere 
of her knowledge and sympathy. Probably there was never a woman of 
whom it might be said more truly that to her own sex she was an object al- 
most of worship. She was looked upon for her simplicity, purity, and childlike 



18 FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 

want of worldly tact or feeling, with involuntary affection ; listened to, for her 
freshness, grace, and brilliancy, with admiration ; and remembered, for her un- 
selfishness, quick sympathy, devotedness, capacity of suffering, and high aspi- 
rations, with a sentiment approaching reverence. This regard which she 
inspired in women was not only shown by the most constant and dehcate at- 
tentions in society, where she was always die most loved and honored gudst, 
but it is recorded in the letters and other writings of many of her most emi- 
nent contemporaries, who saw in her an angel, haply in exile, the sweetness 
and natural wisdom of whose life elevated her far above all jealousies, and made 
her the pride and boast and glory of womanhood. Many pages might be filled 
with their tributes, which seem suiely the most heartfelt that mortal ever gave 
to mortal, but the limits of this sketch of her will suffer only a few and very 
brief quotations from her correspondence. Unquestionably one of the most 
brilliant hterary women of our time is Miss Clarke, so well known as " Grace 
Greenwood." She wrote of Mrs. Osgood with no more earnestness than others 
wrote of her, yet in a letter to the " Home Journal," in 1846, she says: 

" And how are the critical Caesars, one after another, 'giving in' to the graces, and fas- 
cinations, and soft enchantments of this Cleopatra of song. She charms lions to sleep, 
with her silver lute, and then throws around them the delicate net-work of her exquisite 
fancy, and lo ! when they wake, they are well content in their silken prison. 

• From the tips of her pen a melody flows, 
Sweet as the nightingale sings to the rose.' 

" With her beautiful Italian soul — with her impulse, and wild energy, and exuberant fancy, 
and glowing passionateness — and with the wonderful facility with which, like an almond- 
tree casting off its blossoms, she flings abroad her heart-tinted and love-perfumed lays, she 
has, I must believe, more of the improvisatrice than has yet been revealed by any of our 
gifted countrywomen, now before the people. Heaven bless her, and grant her ever, as 
now, to have laurels on her brows, and to browse on her laurels ! Were I the President of 
these United States, I would immortalize my brief term of office by the crowning of our 
Corinna, at the Capitol." 

And about the same period, having been introduced to her, she referred to 
the event : 

" It seems like a ' pleasant vision of the night ' that I have indeed seen 'the idol of my 
early dreams,' that I have been within the charmed circle of her real presence, sat by her 
very side, and lovingly ' watched the shadow of each feeling that moved her soul, glance 
o'er that radiant face !' " 

And writing to her : 

'Dear Mrs. Osgood, let me lay this sweet weight oflT my heart — look down into my 
eyes — believe me— long, long before we met, I loved you, with a strange, almost passionate 
love. You were my literary idol : I repeated some of your poems so often, that their echo 
never had time to die away; your earlier, bird-like warblings so chimed in with the joy- 
ous beatings of my heart, that it seemed it could not throb without them ; and when you 
raised 'your lightning glance to heaven,' and sang your loftiest song, the liquid notes fell 
upon my soul like baptismal waters. With an 'intense and burning,' almost unwomanly 
ambition, I have still joyed in 7jour success, and gloried in your glory ; and all because Love 
laid its reproving finger on the lip of Envy. I cannot tell you how much this romantic in- 
terest has deejiened. 

" Now I have looked upon thy face, 
Have felt thy twininsr arms' embrace, 

Thy very bosom's swell ; — 
One moment leaned this brow of mine 
On song's sweet source, and love's pure shrine, 

And music's * magic cell V *' 



FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 19 

Another friend of hers, Miss Hunter, whose pleasing contributions to our 
literature are well known, probably on account of some misapprehension, had 
not visited her for several months, but hearing of her illness she wrote : 

" Learning this, by chance, I have summoned" courage once more to address you — over- 
coming my fear of being intrusive, and ottering as my apology the simple assertion that it is 
my heart prompts me. Till to-day pride has checked me : but you are ' very ill,' and I can 
no longer resist the impulse. With the assurance that I will never again trouble you, that 
now I neither ask nor expect the slightest response, suffer me thus to steal to your pre- 
sence, to sit beside your bed, and for the last time to speak of a love that has followed yoa 
through months of separation, rejoicing when you have rejoiced, and mourning when you 
have mourned. You know how, from childhood, I have worshipped you, that since our first 
meeting you have been my idol, the realizatii^n of my dreams ; and do not suppose that be- 
cause I have failed to inspire you with a lasting interest, I shall ever feel for you a less deep 
or less fervent devotion. The blame or misfortune of our estrangement I have always re- 
garded as only mine. I know I have seemed indifierent when I panted for expression. You 
have thought me unsympathizing when my every nerve thrilled to your words. I have 
lived in comparative seclusion ; I have an unconquerable reserve, induced by such an ex- 
perience ; and when \ have been with you my soul has had no voice. 

" The time has been when I could not bear the thought of never regaining your friend- 
ship in this world — when I would say ' The years ! oh, the years of this earth-life, that nmst 
pass so slowly !' And when I saw any new poem of yours, I experienced the most sad 
emotions, — every word I read was so like you, it seemed as if you had passed through the 
room, speaking to others near me kindly, but regarding me coldly, or not seeing me. But 
one day I read in a book by Miss Bremer, ' It is a sad experience, who can describe its bit- 
terness ! when we see the friend, on whom we have built for eternity, grow cold, and be- 
come lost to us. But believe it not. thou loving, sorrowing soul — believe it not! continue 
thyself only, and the moment will come when thy friend will return to thee. Yes, there, 
where all delusions cease, thy friend will find thee again, in a higher light, — will acknow- 
ledge thee and unite herself to thee ibrevcr.' And 1 took this assurance to my heart ! 

We may meet in heaven, if not here. I shall not go see you, though my heart is 

wrung by this intelligence of your illness. So good-bye, darling ! May good angels who 
have power to bless you, linger around your pillow with as much love as I shall feel for 
you forever. 

" March 6, 1850." 

I have been permitted to transcribe this letter, and among Mrs. Osgood's 
papers that have been conJ&ded to me are very many such, evincing a devotion 
from women that could have been won only by the most angelic qualities of 
intellect and feehng. 

It was the custom in the last century, when there was among authors more 
of the esprit du corps than now, for poets to greet each other's appearance in 
print with complimental verses, celebrating the quahties for which the seeker 
after bays was most distinguished. Thus in 1729 we find the Omnium Opera 
of John Duke of Buckingham prefaced by " testimonials of authors concerning 
His Grace and liis writings ;" and tlie names of Garth, Roscommon, Dryden, and 
Prior, are among his endorsers. There have been a few instances of the kind 
in this country, of which the most noticeable is that of Cotton Mather, in whose 
Magnalia there is a curious display of erudition and poetical ingenuity, in gra- 
tulatory odes. The literary journals of the last few years furnish many such 
tributes to Mrs. Osgood, which are interesting to her friends for their illustra- 
tion of the personal regard in which she was held. I cannot quote them here ; 
they alone would fill a volume, as others might be filled with the copies of 
verses privately addressed to her, all through her hfe, from the period when, 



20 FRANCES SiTRGENT OSGOOD. 



like a lovely vision, she first beamed upon society, till that last season, in which 
the salutations in assemblies she had frequented were followed by saddest in- 
quiries for the absent and dying poetess. They but repeat, with more or less 
felicity, the graceful praise of Mrs. Hewitt, in a poem upon her portrait : 

She dwells amid the world's dark ways 

Pure as in childhood's hours ; 
And all her thoughts are poetrj'. 

And all her words are tlowers. 

Or that of another, addi-essed to her : 

Then wouldst he loved ? then let thy heart 

From its present pathway part not ! 
Being everjthing, which now thou art, 

Be nothing which thou art not. 
So with the world thy gentle ways, 

Thy grace, thy more than beauty, 
Shall be an endless theme of praise. 

And love — a simple duty. 

Among men, generally, such gentleness and sweetness of temper, joined to 
such grace and wit, could not fail of making her equally beloved and admired. 
She was the keeper of secrets, the counsellor in difficulties, the ever wise mis- 
sionary and industrious toiler, for all her friends. She would brave any priva- 
tion to alleviate another's sufferings ; she never spoke ill of any one ; and when 
others assailed, she was the most prompt of all in generous argument. An 
eminent statesman having casually met her in Philadelphia, afterward described 
her to a niece of his who was visiting that city : 

" If you have opportunity do not fail to become acquainted with Mrs. Osgood. I have 
never known such a w'oman. She continually surprised me by the strength and subtlety 
of her understanding, in which I looked for only sportiveness and delicacy. She is entirely 

a child of nature, and Mrs. , who introduced me to her, and who has known her 

many years I believe, very intimately, declares that she is an angel. Persuade her to 
Washington, and promise her everything you and all of us can do for her pleasure here." 

For her natural gaiety, her want of a certain worldly tact, and other reasons, 
the determinations she sometimes formed that she would be a housekeeper, 
were regarded as fit occasions of jesting, and among the letters sent to her 
when once she ventured upon the ambitious office, is one by her early and 

always devoted friend. Governor , in wliich we have ghmpses of her 

domestic quahties — 

" It is not often that I waste fine paper in writing to people who do not think me worth 
answering. I generally reserve my ' ornamental hand' for those who return two letters for 
my one. But you are an exception to all rules, — and when I heard that you were about to 
commence housekeepivff, I could not forbear sending a word of congratulation and encour- 
agement. I have long thought that your eminently ^racizca^ turn of mind, my dear friend, 
would find congenial employment in superintending an ' establishment.' What a house 
you will keep ! nothing out of place, from garret to cellar— dinner always on the table at 
the regular hour— everything like clock-work— and wo to the servant who attempts to steal 
anything from your store-room ! wo to the butcher who attempts to impose upon you a bad 
joint, or the grocer who attempts to cheat you in the weight of sugar! Such things never 
will do with you ! When I first heard of your project, I thought it must be Ellen or May 
going to pkiy housekeeping with their baby-things, but on a moment's reflection I was con- 
vinced that you knew more about managing, for a family than either of them — certainly 
more than May, and I think, upon the whole, more than even Ellen ! Let Mr. Osgood 
paint you with a bunch of keys in your belt, and do send me a daguerreotype of yourself the 
day after you are installed." 

She was not indeed fitted for such cares, or for any routine, and ill health and 



FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 21 

the desire of freedom prevented her again making such an attempt until she 
finally entered " her own home " to die. 

There was a very intimate relation between Mrs. Osgood's personal and her 
literary characteristics. She lias frequently failed of justice, from critics but 
superficially acquainted with her works, because they have not been able to 
understand how a mind capable of the sparkling and graceful trifles, illustra- 
ting an exhaustless fancy and a natural melody of language, with which she 
amused society in moments of half capricious gaiety or tenderness, could pro- 
duce a class of compositions which demand imagination and passion. In con- 
sidering this subject, it should not be forgotten that these attributes are here to 
be regarded as in their feminine development. 

Mrs. Osgood was, perhaps, as deserving as any one of whom we read in 
literary history, of the title of improvisatrice. Her beautiful songs, displaying 
so truly the most delicate lights and shadows of woman's heart, and surprising 
by their unity, completeness, and rhythmical perfection, were written with al- 
most the fluency of conversation. The secret of tliis was in the wonderful 
sympathy between her emotions and faculties, both of exquisite sensibility, and 
subject to the influences of whatever has power upon the subtler and diviner 
qualities of human nature. Her facility in invention, in the use of poetical 
language, and in giving form to every airy dream or breath of passion, was as- 
tonisliing. It is most true of men, that no one has ever attained to the highest 
reach of his capacities in any art — and least of all in poetry — without labor — 
without the application of the " second thought," after the frenzy of the divine 
afflatus is passed — in giving poUsh and shapely grace. The imagination is the 
servant of the reason ; the creative faculties present their triumphs to the con- 
structive — and the seal to the attainable is set, by every one, in repose and 
meditation. But this is scarcely a law of the feminine intelligence, which, when 
really endowed with genius, is apt to move spontaneously, and at once, with its 
greatest perfection. Certainly, Mrs. Osgood disclaimed the wrestling of thought 
with expression. For the most part her poems cost her as little effort or re- 
flection, as the epigram or toucliing sentiment that summoned laughter or tears 
to the group about her in the drawing-room. 

She was indifferent to fame ; she sung simply in conformity to a law of her 
existence ; and perhaps this want of interest was the cause not only of the 
most striking faults in her compositions, but Ukewise of the common ignorance 
of their variety and extent. Accustomed from childliood to the use of the pen 
— resorting to it through a hfe continually exposed to the excitements of gaiety 
and change, or the depressions of affliction and care, she strewed along her way, 
with a prodigality almost unexampled, the choicest flowers of feeling : left 
them unconsidered and unclaimed in the repositories of friendship, or under 
fanciful names, which she herself had forgotten, in newspapers and magazines, 
— in which they were sure to be recognised by some one, and so the purpose of 
their creation fulfilled. It was therefore very difficult to make any such col- 
lection of her works as justly to display her powers and their activity ; and 
the more so, that those eff"usions of hers which were likely to be most charao- 



FRANCES SxVRGENT OSGOOD. 



teristic, and of the rarest excellence, were least liable to exposure in printed 
forms, by the friends, widely scattered in Europe and America, for whom they 
were written. But notwithstanding these disadvantages, the works of Mrs. 
Osgood Avith which we are acquainted, are more voluminous than those of 
Mrs. Hemans or Mrs. Norton.* Besides the " Wreath of Wild Flowers from 
New England," which appeared during her residence in London, a collection of 
her poems in one volume was published in New York in 1846 ; and in 1849, 
Mr. Hart, of Philadelphia, gave to the public, in a large octavo, illustrated by 
our best artists, and equalling or surpassing in its tasteful and costly style any 
work before issued from the press of this country, the most complete and ju- 
diciously edited collection of them that has appeared. This edition, however, con- 
tains less than half of her printed pieces wliich she acknowledged ; and among 
those wliich are omitted are a tragedy, a comedy, a great number of piquant 
and ingenious vers de societe, and several sacred pieces, which strike us as among 
the best writings of their kind in our literature, which in this department, we 
may admit, is more distinguishable for the profusion than the quality of its fruits. 
Mrs. Osgood's definition of poetry that it is the rhythmical creation of beauty, 
is as old as Sydney ; and tliough on some grounds objectionable, it is, per- 
haps, on the whole, as just as any that the critics have given us. An intelli- 
gent examination, in the light of this principle, of what she accomplished, will, 
it is believed, show that she was, in the general, of the first rank of female 
poets ; while in her special domain, of the Poetry of the Affections, she had 
scarcely a rival among women or men. As Pinckney said. 

Affections were as thoiigrhts to her, the measure of her hours — 
Her feelings had the fragrancy and freshness of young flowers. 

Of love, she sung with tenderness and delicacy, a wonderful richness of fancy, 
and rhythms that echo all the cadences of feeling. From the arch mockeiy of 
the triumphant and careless conqueror, to the most passionate prayer of the 
despairing, every variety and height and depth of hope and fear and bliss 
and pain is sounded, in, words that move us to a solitary lute or a full orches- 
tra of a thousand voices ; and with an abandon, as suggestive of genuinefaess 
as that which sometimes made the elder Kean seem " every inch a king." It 
is not to be supposed that all these caprices are illustrations of the experiences 
of the artist, in the case of the poet any more than in that of the actor : by an 
effort of the will, they pass with the liberties of genius into their selected 
realms, assume their guises, and discourse their language. If ever there were 

— Depths of tenderness which showed when woke, 
That woman there as well as angel spoke, 



they are not to be looked for in the printed specimens of woman's genius. 
Mrs. Osgood guarded herself against such criticism, by a statement in her pre- 

* Besides the books by her which have been referred to, she published The Lanffuaot of Cems, (London) ; The 
Snwoi^ro./), (Providence); Push in ifoo^s, (New York) : Crie« of Keie York, (New YoVkJ; The F/ineer Alphabet, 
(Boston); The Hose: Sketches in Verse, (Piovidence) ; A Letter About the Lions, addressed to Mabel in tie Countrj/, 
(New York). The following list of her prose tales, sketches, and essays, is probably very incomplete : A Day in 
New England; A Cnimpled Rose Leaf; Florence Howard; Ida Gray; Florence Erringtcn; A Match for the 
Matchmaker ; Mary Evehii ; Once More ; Athenals ; The Wife ; The Little Lost Shoe ; The Magic Lute ; Feeling 
vs. Beauty ; The Doom ; 1'he Flower and Gem ; The Coquette ; The Soul Awakened ; Glimpses of a Soul, (in three 
parts) ; Lizzie Lincoln ; Dora's Reward ; Waste Paper ; Newport Tableux ; Daguerreotj-pe Pictures ; Carry Carlisle ; 
Valentine's Day; The Lady's Shadow; Truth; Virginia; The Waltz and the Wager; The Poet's Metamorphosis; 
Pride and Penitence ; Mabel ; Pictures from a Painter's Life ; Georgiana Hazleton ; A Sketch ; Kate Melbourne ; 
Life in New York ; Leonora L'Kslrange ; The Magic Mirror ; The Blue Belle ; and Letters of Kate Carol, (a series 
of sketches of men, women, and books, contributed for the most part to Mr. Labree's UlustrateJ Magazine, 



FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 23 

face, that many of her songs, and other verses, were written to appear in prose 
sketches and stories, and were expressions of feeling suitable to the persons 
and incidents with which they were at first connected. 

In this last edition, to which only reference will be made in these paragraphs, 
her works are arranged under the divisions of Miscellaneous Poems — embracing, 
with such as do not readily admit another classification, her most ambitious and 
sustained compositions ; Sacred Poems — among which, " The Daughter of He- 
rodias," the longest, is remarkable for melodious versification and distinct paint- 
ing : Tales and Ballads — all distinguished for a happy play of fancy, and two 
or three for the fruits of such creative energy as belongs to the first order of 
poetical intelligences ; Floral Fancies — which display a gaiety and grace, an 
ingenuity of allegory, and elegant refinement of language, that illustrate her 
fairy-hke delicacy of mind and purity of feeling ; and Songs — of which we 
shall offer some particular observations in their appropriate order. Scattered 
through the book we have a few poems for children, so perfect in their way as 
to induce regret that she gave so little attention to a kind of writing in which 
few are really successful, and in which she is scarcely equalled. 

The volume opens with a brief voluntary, which is followed by a beautiful 
and touching address to The Spirit of Poetry, displaying the perfection of her 
powers, and her consciousness that they had been too much neglected while 
ministering more than all things else to her happiness. If ever from her heart 
she poured a passionate song, it was this, and these concluding lines of it admit 
us to the sacredest experiences of her life : 

Leave me not yet ! Leave me not cold and lonely, Well do I know that I have wrong'd thine altar, 

Thou star of promise o'er my clouded path ! With the light offerings of an idler's mind, 

Leave not the life that borrows from thee only And thus, with shame, my pleading prayer I falter, 

All of delight and beauty that it hath ! " Leave me not, spirit ! deaf, and dumb, and blind ! 

Thou that, when others knew not how to love me, Deaf to the mystic hannoiiy of nature. 

Nor cared to fathom half my j-eaming soul, Blind to the'beauty of her stars and flowers ; 

Didst wreathe thy flowers of light around, above me, Leave me not, heavenly yet human teacher, 

To woo and win me from my grief's control : Lonely and lost in this cold world of ours ; 

By all my dreams, the passionate and holy, Heaven knows I need thy music and thy beauty 

When 'thou hast sung love's lullaby to ine, Still to beguile me on my drearv- way, 

By all the childlike worehip, fond and lowly, To lighten to my soul the cares of duty, 

'Wliich I have la\-ish'd upon thine and thee : And bless with radiant dreams the darken'd day; 

By all the lays my simple lute was learning To charm my wild heart in the worldly revel, 

To echo from thy voice, stay with me still ! Lest I, too, join the aimless, false and vain. 

Once flown — alas ! for thee there's no returning! Let me not lower to the soulless level 

The charm will die o'er valley, wood and hill. Of those whom now I pity and disdain ! 

Tell me not Time, whose wing my brow has shaded, Leave me not yet ! — Leave me not cold and pining, 

Has wither'd Spring's sweet bloom within my heart; Thou bird of Paradise, whose plumes of light. 

Ah, no ! the ro5e of love is yet unfaded, Where'er they rested, left a glory shining — 

Though hope and joy, its' sister flowers, depart. Fly not to heaven, or let me share thy flight ! 

After this comes one of her most poetical compositions, " Ermengarde's 
Awakening," in which, with even more than her usual felicity of diction, she 
has invested with mortal passion a group from the Pantheon. It is too long to 
be quoted here, but as an example of her manner upon a similar subject, and 
in the same rhythm, we copy the poem of " Eurydice :" 

With heart that thrill'd to every earnest line, The scene is round me ! Throned amid the gloom, 

I had been reading o'er that antique story, As a flower smiles on Etna's fatal breast, 

Wherein the youth, half hnman, half divin'e, Young Proserpine beside her lord doth bloom ; 

Of all love-lore the Eidolon and glory, And near — of Orpheus' soul, oh, idol blest',— 

Child of the Sun, with music's pleading spell, While low for thee he tunes his lyre of light. 

In Pluto's palace swept, for love, nis golden shell ! I see thij meek, fair form dawn through that lurid night ! 

And m the wUd, sweet legend, dimly traced, I see the glorious boy — his dark locks WTeathing 

My own heart's history unfolded seem'd; Wildly the wan and spiritual brow; 

Ah '.'lost one ! by thy lover-minstrel graced His sweet, eurs-ed lip the soul of music breathing; 

With homagepure .is ever woman dreamed. His blue Greek eves, that speak Love's loyal vow; 

Too fondly worshipp'd, since such fate befell, I see him bend on t)iee that eloquent glance. 

Was it not sweet to die — because beloved too well ? The while those wondrous notes the realm of terror trance. 



24 FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 



I see his face with more than mortal bemity "Still, my own Orpheus, sweep the golden l>Te! 

Kindling, ns, armed with that sweet lyre alone, Ah ! dost thou mark how gentle Proserpine, 

Pledged to a holy and heroic duty, With clasped hands and eyes whose azuro fire 

He stands serene before the awful throne, Gleams thro' quick tears, thrilled by thy lay, doth lean 

And looks on Hades' hoiTors witii clear eye. Her giaceful head upon her stem lord's brejist, 

Since thou, his own adored Eurjdice, art nigh. Like an o'erwearied child, whom music lulls to rest? 

Now soft and low a prelude sweet uprings, " Play,, my proud minstrel ! strike the chords again 1 

As if a prison 'd angel— pleading there Lo, Victory crowns at lust thy heavenly skill! 

For life and love— were fetter'd 'neath the strings, For Pluto turns relenting to the strain — 

And poured his passionate soul upon the air! He waves hiahand— he speaks his awful will! 

Anon it clangs with wild, exulting swell. My glorious Greek, lead on ! but ah, still lend 

Till the full paen peals triumphantly through Hell. Thy soul to thy sweet lyre, lest yet thou lose thy friend ! 

And thou, thy pale hands meekly lock'd before thee, " Tliink not of me ! Think rather of the time, 

Thy sad eyes drinking life from /lis dear gaze, When, moved by thy resistless melody 

Thy lips apart, thy hair a halo o'er thee To the strange magic of a song sublime. 

Trailing around thy throat its golden maze ; Thy argo grandly glided to the sea ; 

Tliiis, with all words in p.tssionate silence dying, And m the majesty Minerva gave. 

Within thy soul I hear Love's eager voice replying : The graceful gallSy swept, with joy, the sounding wave. 

"Play on, mine Orpheus! Lo! while these- are gazing, "Or see, in Fancy's dream, thy Thracian trees. 

Charm 'd into st^itues by the god-taught stram, Their proud heads bent submissive to the sound, 

I, I alone — to thy dear face upraising Sway'<l by a tiuieful and enchanted breeze, 

My tearful glance — the life of life regain ! March to slow music o'er the astonished ground ; 

For every tone that steals into my heart Grove after grove descending from the hills, [rills. 

Doth to its worn weak pulse a miglity power impart. While round thee weave their dance, the glad harmonious 

" Play on, mine Orpheus ! while thy music floats " Think not of me ! Ha ! by thy mignty sire. 

Through the dread realm, divine with truth and grace. My lord, my l:ing, recall thedread behest ! 

See, dear one ! how the chain of Ikiked notes Turn" not, ah !' turn not back those eyes of fire ! 

Has fetter'd every spirit in its place ! Oh ! lost, forever lost ! undone ! uiiblest ! 

Even Death, beside me, still and lielpless lies, I faint, I die ! — the serpent's fang once more 

And strives in vain to chill my frame with his cold eyes. Is here ! — nay, grieve not thus ! Life, but not Love, is o'er !" 

This is a noble poem, with too many interjections, and occasional redundan- 
cies of imagery and epithet, betraying the author's customary haste : but with 
unquestionable signs of that genuineness which is the best attraction of the 
literature of sentiment. The longest and most sustained of Mrs. Osgood's com- 
positions is one entitled " Fragments of an Unfinished Story," in which she 
has exhibited such a skill in blank verse — frequently regarded as the easiest, 
but really the most difficult of any — as induces regret that she so seldom made 
use of it. "We have here a masterly contrast of character in the equally natural 
expressions of feeling by the two principal persons, both of whom are women : 
the haughty Ida, and the impulsive child of passion, Imogen. It displays in 
eminent perfection, that dramatic faculty which Sheridan Knowles and the late 
William Cooke Taylor recognised as the most striking in the composition of 
her genius. She had long meditated, and in her mind had perfectly arranged, 
a more extended poem than she has left to us, upon Music It was to b6 in 
this measure, except some lyrical interludes, and she was so confident of suc- 
ceeding in it, that she deemed all she had written of comparatively little woilli. 
" Tliese," she said to me one day, pointing to the proof-leaves of the new edition 
of her poems, " these are my ' Miscellaneous Verses :' let us get them out of 
the way, and never think of them again, as the public never Avill when they 
have MY POEM !" And her friends who heard the splendid scheme of her im- 
agination, did not doubt that when it should be clothed with the rich tissues of 
her fancy, it would be all she dreamed of, and vindi(!ate all that they them- 
selves were fond of saying of her powers. It was while her life was fading-; 
and no one else can grasp the shining threads, or weave them into song, such as 
she heard hps, touched with divinest fire, far along in the ages, repeating with 
her name. This was not -vanity, or a low ambition. She lingered, with sub- 
dued and tearful joy, Avhen all the living and the present seemed to fail her, 
upon the pages of the elect of genius, and Avas happiest when she thought some 
words of hers might hft a sad soul from a sea of sorrow. 



FRA:D;rcEs sargent Osgood. 



25 



It was perhaps the key-note of that unwritten poem, which she sounded in these 
verses upon its subject, composed while the design most occupied her attention : 



The Father spake ! In grand reverberations 
, Through space roll'd on the mighty music-tide, 
While to its low, majestic moduliitions, 
The clouds of chaos slowly swept aside. 

The Father spake : a dream, that had been lying 
Hush'd, from eternity, in silence there, 

Heard the pure melody, and low replying;. 
Grew to that music in the wondering air — 

Grew to that music — slowly, grandly waking — 
Till, bathed in beauty, it became a world ! 



Led by his voice, its spheric pathway taking^ 
While glorious clouds their wings around it furl'd. 



Nor yet has ceased that sound, his love revealing, 
Though, in response, a universe moves by ; 

Throuo:hout eternity its echo pealing. 
World after world awakes in glad reply. 

And wheresoever, in his grand creation. 
Sweet music breathes — in wave, or bird, or soul — 

'Tis but the faint and far reverberation 
Of that great tune to which the planets roll. 



Mrs. Osgood produced something in almost" every form of poetical compo- 
sition, but the necessary limits of this article permit but few illustrations of the 
variety or perfectness of her capacities. The examples given here, even if fa- 
miliar, will possess a new interest now ; and no one will read them without a 
feeling of sadness that she wlio wrote them died so young, just as the fairest 
flowers of her genius were unfolding. One of the most exquisite pieces she 
had written in the last few years, is entitled " Calumny," and we know not 
where to turn for anything more delicately beautiful than the manner in which 
the subject is treated. 



A whisper woke the air, 
A SI ft, light tone, and low. 
Yet barbed with shame and wo. 

Ah ! might it only perish there. 
Nor fartiier go ! 

But no ! a quick and eager ear 

Caught up the little, meaning sound ; 
Another voice hag bieathe'd it clear ; 

And so it wandered round 
From ear to lip, from lip to ear, 
Until it reached a gentle heart 
Thit throbbed from all the world apart. 
And that — it broke ! 

It was the only heart it found, 

The only heart 't was meant to find, 

When first its accents woke. 
It reached that gentle heart at last, 
And that— it broke ! 



l/ow as it seemed to other ears, 
It came a thunder-crash to hers — ■ 

That fragile girl, so fair and gay. 
'Tis said a lovely humming bird. 

That dreaming in a lily lay. 
Was killed but by the gun's report 
Some idle boy had fired in sport — 
So exquisitely frail its frame. 
The very sound a death-blow came — 
And thus her heart, unused to shame, 

Shrmed in its lily too, 

(For who the maid that knew. 
But ownied the delicate, flower-like grace 
Of her young form and face ?) 
Her light .<ind happy heart, that beat 
AVith love and hope so fast and sweet, 
When first that cruel word it heard, 
It fluttered like a frightened bird — 
Then shut its wings and sighed. 
And with a silent shudder died ! 



In some countries this would, perhaps, be the most frequently quoted of the 
author's effusions ; but liere, the terse and forcible piece under the title of 
" Laborare est Orare," will be admitted to all collections of poetical specimens ; 
and it deserves such popularity, for a combination as rare as it is successful of 
common sense with the form and spirit of poetry. 

Labor is rest— from the sorrows that greet us ; 
Rest from all petty vexations that meet us. 
Rest from sin-pr<imptings that ever entreat us. 

Rest from world-syrens that lure us to ill. 
Work — and pure slumbers sh.all wait on thy pillow; 
Work— thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow ; 
Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping willow; 

Work with a stout heart and resolute will ! 

Labor is health ! Lo ! the husbandman reaping. 
How through his veins goes the life current leaping ! 
How his strong arm, in its stalwart pride sweeping. 

True as a, sunbeam the swift sickle guides. 
Labor is wealth— in the sea the pearl groweth ; 
Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth ; 
From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth; 

Temple and statue the marble block hides. 

Droop not, tho' shame, sin, and anguish are round thee 
Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee ; 
Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee ; 

Rest not content in thy darkness — a clod ! 
Work — for some good, be it ever so slowly; 
Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly; 
Labor ! — all labor is noble and holv ; 



Pause not to dream of the future before us ; 

Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us ; 

Hark, how Creation's deep, musical chorus, 

Unintermitting, goes up into heaven ! 
Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing; 
Never the little seed stops in its growing; 
More and more richly the rose-lieart keeps glowing, 

Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. - 

"" Labor is worship !" — the robin is singing : 
"Labor is worship !"— the wild bee is ringing: 
Listen ! that eloquent whisper upspringing 

Speaks to thy soul from out nature's great heart. 
From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower ; 
From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing flower; 
From the small insert, the rich coral bower ; 
Only man, in the plan, shrinks from liis part. 

Labor is life ! 'Tis the still water faileth ; 

Idleness ever despaireth. bewaileth ; 

Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth ; 

Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon. 
Labor is glory!— the flying cloud lightens; 
Only the waving wing changes and brightens; 
Idle" hearts only the dark future frightens 



Play the sweet keys, wouldat thou keep them in tone ! Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God. 

3 



26 



FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 



In fine contrast with this is the description of a " Dancing Girl," written in 
a longer poem, addressed to her sister soon after her arrival in London, in 
the autumn of 1834. It is as graceful as the vision it brings so magically 
before us : 



She comes — the spirit of the dance ! 

And but for those large, eloquent eyes, 
Where passion speaks in every glance, 

She'd seem a wanderer from the skies. 

So light that, gazing breathless there, 
Lest the celestial dream should go, 

Vou'd think the music in the air 
Waved the fair vision to and fro ! 

Or that the melody's sweet flow- 
Within the radiant creature play'd, 

And those soft wreathing arms of snow 
And white sylph feet the music made. 



Now gliding slow with dreamy grace. 
Her eyes beneath their lashes lost; 

Now motionless, with lifted face, 
And smiill hands on her bosom cross'd. 

And now with flashing eyes she springs, 
Her whole bright figure raised m air, 

As if her soul had spread its wings 
And poised her one wild instant there ! 

She spoke not : but, so richly fraught 
With language are her glance and smile, 

That, when the curtain fell, I thought 
She had been talkuig all the while. 



In illustration of what we have said of Mrs. Osgood's delineations of re- 
fined sentiment, we refer to the poems from pages one hundred and eleven to 
one hundred and thirty-one, willing to rest upon them our praises of her genius. 
It may be accidental, but they seem to have an epic relation, and to constitute 
one continuous history, finished with uncommon elegance and glowing with a 
beauty wliich has its inspiration in a deeper profound than was ever penetrated 
by messengers of the brain. Tlie third of these glimpses of heart-life — all hav- 
ing the same air of sad reality — exhibits, with a fidelity and a peculiar power 
which is never attained in such descriptions by men, the struggle of a pm-e and 
passionate nature with a hopeless affection : 



Had we but met in life's delicious spring. 
When young rnm.ince made Eden of the world ; 

When bird-like Hope was ever on the wing, 

(In thy dear breast how soon had it been furled !) 

Had we but met when both our hearts were beating 
With the wild joy, the guileless love of youth — 

Thou a proud boy, with frank and ardent greeting. 
And I a timid girl, all trust and truth ! — 

Fre yet my pulse's light, elastic play 

Had leam'd the weary weight of grief to know. 
Ere from these eyes hadpassed the morning ray. 

And from my cheek the early rose's glow ; — 

Had we but met in life's delicious spring, 
Ere wrong and falsehood taught me doubt and fear, 

Ere Hope came back with worn and wounded wing. 
To die upon the heart it could not cheer ; 

Ere T love's precious pearl had vainly lavish'd, 

I'loclgitig an idol deaf to my despair; 
Ert one by one the buds and blooms were ravish'd 

From lile's rich garland by the clasp of Care. 

Ah ! had we then but met! — I dare not listen 
To the wild whispers of my fancy now I 

Mv ftdl heart beats — my sad, droop'd lashes glisten — 
i hear the music of tliy boyhoodh vow ! 

I see thy dark eyes lustrous with love's meaning, 
I feel 'thy dear hand softly clasp mine own — 

Tliy noble form is fondly o'er me leaning — 
It is too much — but ah ! the dream has flown. 

How had I pour'd this passionate heart's devotion 
In voiceless rapture on thy manly breast ! 



How had I hush'd each sorrowfiil emotion, 
LuU'd by thy love to sweet, untroubled rest. 

How had I knelt hour after hour beside thee, 
When from tliy lips the rare scholastic lore 

Fell on the soul that all but deified thee. 

While at each pause I, childlike, pray'd for more. 

How had I watch'd the shadow of each feeling. 
That mov'd ihy soul-glance o'er that radiant face, 

"Taming my wild heart " to that dear revealing. 
And glorjing in thy genius and thy grace ! 

Then hadst thou loved me with a love abiding, 
And I had now been less unworthy thee, 

For I was generous, guileless, and confiding, / 

A frank enthusiast, buoyant, fresh, and free ! 

But now — my loftiest aspirations perish'd, 
My holiest hopes a jest for Ups profane, 

The"tenderest yearnings of my soul uncherish'd, 
A soul-worn slave in Custom's iron chain : 

Check'd by those ties that make my lightest sigh, 
My faintest blush, at thought of thee, a crime — 

How must I still my heart, and school my eye, 
And coujit in vain the slow dull steps of I'ime ! 

Wilt thou come back! Ah ! what avails to ask thee 
Since honor, faith, forbid thee to return ! 

Yet to forgetfiilness I dare not task thee, 
Lest thou too soon that tas'j lesson learn ! 

Ah ! come not back, love ! even through Memory's e.'ir 
Tliy tone's melodious murmur thrills my heart — 

Come'not with that fond smile, so frank, so dear : 
While yet we may, let us for ever part ! 



The passages commencing, " Thank God, I glory in thy love;" "Ah, let our 
love be still a folded flower ;" " Beheve me, 'tis no pang of jealous pride ;" " "We 
part forever : silent be our parting ;" are in the same measure, and in perfect 
keeping, but evince a still deeper emotion and greater pathos and power. We 
copy the closing cantatas, " To Sleep," and " A "Weed " — a prayer and a pro- 



phecy — in which the profoundest sorrow is displayed with touching simplicity 
and unafifected earnestness. Fu-st, to Death's gentle sister: 



Come to me, angel of the weary hearted ; 

Since they, my loved ones, breathed upon by thee, " 
Unto thy realms unreal have departed, 

I, too," may rest — even I : ah ! haste to me. 

I dare not bid thy darker, colder brother 
With his more welcome oflfering, appear, 

For these sweet lips, at mom, will munnur, "Mother,' 
And who shall soothe them if I be not near * 



Bring me no dream, dear Sleep, though visions glowing 
With hues of heaven thy wand enchanted shows ; 

I ask no glorious boon of thy bestowing. 
Save that most true, most beautiful — repose. 



I have no heart to rove in realms of Faery — 

To follow Fancy at her elfin call ; 
I am too wretched — too soul-worn and weary ; 

Give me but rest, for rest to me is all. 

Paint not the future to my fainting spirit, 

Though it were starr'd" with glory like the skies ; 

There is" no gift that mortals may inherit 
That could rekindle hope in tfiese cold eyes. 

And for the Past — the fearful Past — ah ! never 
. Be ^Memory's dowTicast gaze unveil'd by thee ; 
Would thou couldst bring oblivion forever 
Of all that is, that has been, and will be ! 



And more mom'nful still, the dream of the after days 



When from our northern woods pale simmier flv"ing, 
Breathes her last fragrant sigh — her low fareAvell- 

While her sad wild flowers' dewy eyes, in dying. 
Plead for her stay, in every nook and deU. 

A he«rt that loved too tenderly and truly, 

Will break at last ; and in some dim, sweet shade, 

They'll smooth the sod o'er her y< u prized unduly, 
And leave her to the rest for which she pray'd. 

Ah ! trustfully, not mournfully, they'll leave her, 
Assured that deep repose is" welcomed well ; 

The pure, glad breeze can whisper naught to grieve her ; 
The brook's low voice no wrongful tale can tell. 

They'll hide her where no false one's footsteps, stealing, 
Can mar the chasten'd meekness of her sleep ; 



Only to Love and Grief her grave revealing, 
Aiid they will hush their chiding then — to weep I 

And some, (for though too oft she err'd, too blindly, 
She was beloved — how fondly and how well I)-^ 

Some few, with faltering feet, will linger kindly. 
And plant dear flowers within that silent dell. 

I know whose fragile hand will bring the bloom 
Best loved by both — the violet's — to that bower ; 

And one vrM bid white lilies bless the gloom : 
And one, perchance, wOl plant the passion flower ; 

Then do thou come, when all the rest have parted — 
Thou, who alone dost know her soul's deep gloom! 

And wreathe above the lost, the broken-hearted. 
Some idle weed, that knew not how to bloom. 



"We pass from these painful but exquisitely beautiful displays of sensitive 
feeling and romantic fancy, to pieces exhibiting Mrs. Osgood's more habitual 
spirit of arch playfulness and graceful invention, scattered through the volume, 
and constituting a class of compositions in which she is scarcely approachable. 
The " Lover's List," an improvisation, is one of her shorter ballads : 



" Come sit on this bank so shady, 
Sweet Evelyn, sit with me ! 

And count me" your loves, fair lady- 
How many may they be ?" 

The maiden smiled on her lover, 
And tnaeed with her dimpled hand, 

Of names a dozen and over 
Down in the shining sand. 

"And now," said Evelyn, rising, 
" Sir Knight ' your own, if you please ; 

And if there be no disguising,' 
The list will outnimiber these ; 

" Then cotmt me them truly, rover '." 
And the noble knight obeyed ; 

And of names a dozen and over 
He traced within the shade. 

Fair Evelyn pouted proudly. 

She sigiied " Will he never have done ! 
And at last she murmur'd loudly, 

" I thought he would write but one .'" 



"Xow read," said the gay youth, rising; 

" The scroll — it is fair and free ; 
In truth, there is no disguising 

That list is the world to me !" 

She read it with joy and wonder. 
For the first was her own sweet name ; 

And again and again written under, 
It was still — it was still the same ! 

It began with — " My Evelyn fairest '." 
It ended with — "Evelyn best !" 

And epithets fondest and" dearest 
Were lavished between on the rest. 

There were tears m the eyes of the lady 
As she swept with her delicate hand, 

On the river-bank cool and shady. 
The list she had traced in the sand. 

There were smiles on the lip of the maiden 
As she turned to her Icnight once more, 

And the heart was with joy o'erladen 
That was heavy with doubt before ! 



And for its lively movement and buoyant feehng — equally characteristic of 
her genius — the following song, upon " Lady Jane," a favorite horse : 



Oh ! saw ye e'er creature so queenly, so fine, 
As this dainty, aerial darling of mine ? 
With a toss of her mane, that is glossy as jet, 
With a dance and a prance, and a frolic curvet. 
She is ofi' ! she is stepping superbly away ! 
Her dark, speaking eye lull of pride and of play. 
Oh 1 she spurns the dull earth with a graceful disdain, 
My fearless, my peerless, my loved Lady Jane ! 

Her silken ears lifted when danger is nigh. 
How kindles the night in her resolute eye ! 
Kow stately she paces, as if to the sound 
Of a proud, martial melody playing around, 



Xow pauses at once, 'mid a light caracole, 
To turn her mild glance on me beaming with soul • 
Now fleet as a fairy, she speeds o'er the plain, 
My darling, my treasure, my own Lady Jane ! 

Give her rein ! let her go ! Like a shaft from a bow, 
LikM bird on the wing, she is speeding, I trow — 
Lignrof heart, lithe of limb, with a spirit all fire, 
Yet sway'd and subdued by my idlest desire — 
Though daring, yet docile,"and" sportive but true. 
Her nature 's the noblest that ever 1 knew. 
How she flings back her head, in her dainty disdain ! 
My beauty, my graceful, my gay Lady Jan'e I 



28 FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 

It is among the one liundred and thirteen songs, of which this is one, and 
which form the last division of her poems, that we have the greatest varieties 
of rhythm, cadence, and expression ; and it is here too that we have, perhaps, 
the most clear and natural exhibitions of that class of emotions which she con- 
ceives with such wonderful truth. The prevailing characteristic of these pieces 
is a native and dehcate raillery, piquant by wit, and poetical by the freshest 
and gracefuUest fancies ; but they are frequently marked by much tenderness 
of sentiment, and by boldness and beauty of imagination. They are in some 
instances without that singleness of purpose, that unity and completeness, 
which ought invariably to distinguish this sort of compositions, but upon the 
whole it must be considered that Mrs. Osgood was remarkably successful in the 
song. The fulness of our extracts from other parts of the volume will prevent 
that hberal illustration of her excellence in this which would be as gratifying to 
the reader as to us ; and we shall transcribe but a few specimens, which, by 
various felicities of language, and a pleasing delicacy of sentiment, wiU detain 
the admkation : 

Oh '. would I were only a spirit of song I'd bring rare visions of pure delight 
I'd float forever around, above you : From the land of dreams before you. 

If I were a spirit, it wouldn't be wrong, 

It couldn't be wrong, to love you ! Oh ! if I were only a spirit of song, 

I'd float forever around, above you, 

I'd hide in the light of a moonbeam bright, For a musical spirit could never do wrong, 
I'd sing Love's lullaby softly o'er you, And it wouldn't be wrong to love you I 

The next, an exquisitely beautiful song, suggests its own music: 

She loves him yet ! She loves him yet !— 

I know by the blush that rises The flower the false one gave her. 

Beneath the curls When last he came. 

That shadow her soul-lit cheek ; Is still with her wild tears wet. 

She loves him yet! She'll ne'er forget. 

Through all Love's sweet disguises Howe'er his faith may waver, 

In timid girls. Through grief and shame, 

A blush will be sure to speak. Believe it — she loves him yet. 

But deeper signs His favorile songs 

Than the radiiint blush of beauty, She will ping — she heeds no other ; 

The maiden finds, With aU her wrongs 

Whenever his name is beard ; Her life on his love is set. 

Her young heart thrills, Oh ! doubt no more ! 

Forgetting herself— her duty— She never can wed another ; 

Her dark eye fills. Till life be o'er. 

And her pulse with hope is stirr'd. She loves — she will love him yet! 

And this is not less remarkable for a happy adaptation of sentiment to the 
sound : 

Low, njy lute — breathe low ! — She sleeps ! — All my passion, all my wo, 

Eidalie ! Speak for me ! 

While hLs watch her lover keeps, Ask her in her balmy rest 

Soft and dewy slumber steeps Whom her holy heart loves best ! 

Golden tress and fringed lid A^k her if she thinks of me !— 
With the blue heaven 'neath it hid — Eulalie ! 

Eulalie ! Low, niy lute !— breathe low !— She sleeps !— 
Low, my lute — breathe low ! — She sleeps !— Eulalie ! 

Eulalie ! Slumber while thy lover keeps 

Let thy music, light and low. Fondest watch and ward for thee, 
Through her pure dream cnme and go. Eulalie ! 

Lute on Love 1 with silver flow, 

The following evinces a deeper feeling, and has a corresponding force and 
dignity in its elegance : — 

Yes, " lower to the level " Yet when the laugh is lightest, 

Of those who laud thee now ! When wildest goes the jest. 
Go, join the joyous revel, i^ When gleams the goblet brightest, 
And pledge the heartless vow ! And proudest heaves thy breast, 
Go, dim the soul-bom beauty And thou art madly pledgmg 
That lights that lofty brow ! Each gav and jovial guestr— 
Fill, fill the bowl ! let burning wine A ghost shall glide amid the flowers- 
Drown in thy soul Love's dream dime I The shade of Love's departed hotua 1 



FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 29 



And thou shidt shriaik in sadness Yet deem not this my prayer, lore, 

From all tlie splendor there, Ah ! no, if I could Keep 

And curse the revel's gladness. Thy alter-d heart from cure, love. 

And hate the banquet's glare ; And charm its griefs to sleep, 

And p'me, 'mid Passion's nisidness. Mine only should despair, lore, 

For true love's purer air, " I— I alone would weep ! 

And feel thou'dst give their wildest glee I — I alone would mourn the flowers 

For one unsullied sigh from me '. That lude in Love's deserted bowers! 

Among her poems are many which admit us to the sacre^Pt recesses of the 
mother's heart : " To a Child Playing with a Watch," " To Little May Vin- 
cent," " To Ellen, Learning to Walk," and many others, show the almost wild 
tenderness with Avhich she loved her two surviving daughters — one thirteen, 
and the other eleven years of age now ; — and a " Prayer in Illness," in which 
she besought God to " take them first," and suffer her to lie at their feet in 
death, lest, deprived of her love, they should be subjected to all the sorrow she 
herself had known in the world, is exquisitely beautiful and touching. Her 
parents, her brothers, her sisters, her husband, her cliildren, were the deities of 
her tranquil and spiritual worship, and she turned to them in every vicissitude 
of feeling, for hope and strength and repose. " Lilly " and " May," were objects 
of a devotion too sacred for any idolsi^beyond the threshold, and we witness it 
nut as something obtruded upon the outer world, but as a display of beautified 
and dignified humanity which is among the ministries appointed to be received 
for the elevation of our natures. With these holy and beautiful songs is inter- 
twined one, which under the title of " Ashes of Roses," breathes the solemnest 
requiem that ever was sung for a child, and in reading it we feel that in the 
subject was removed into the Unknown a portion of the mother's heart and life. 

The poems of Mrs. Osgood are not a laborious balancing of syllables, but a 
spontaneous gushing of thoughts, fancies and feelings, which fall naturally into 
harmonious measures ; and so perfectly is the sense echoed in the sound, that it 
seems as if many of her compositions might be intelligibly written in the char- 
acters of music. It is a pervading excellence of her works, whether in prose or 
verse, that they are graceful beyond those of any other author who has written 
in this country; and the delicacy of her taste was such that it would pro 
bably be impossible to find in all of them a fancy, a thought, or a word 
ofiensive to that fine instinct in its highest cultivation or subtlest sensibility. It 
is one of her great merits that she attempted nothing foreign to her own afflu- 
ent but not various genius. There is a stilted ambition, common lately to lit- 
erary women, which is among the fatalest diseases to reputation. She was 
never betrayed into it ; she was always simple and natural, singing in no fal- 
setto key, even when she entered the temples of old mythologies. With an 
extraordinary susceptibility of impressions, she had not only the finest and 
quickest discernment of those peculiarities of character which give variety to 
the surface of society, but of certain kinds and conditions of life she perceived 
the shghtest undulations and the deepest movements. She had no need to 
travel beyond the legitimate sphere of woman's observation, to seize upon the 
upturnings and overthrows which serve best for rounding periods in the senate 
or in courts of criminal justice — trying everything to see if poetry could be 
made of it. Nor did she ever demand audience for rude or ignoble passion, or 
admit the moral shade beyond the degree in which it must appear in all pic- 

3* 



"-] 



30 FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 

tures of life. She lingered with her keen insight and quick sensibilities among 
the associations, influences, the fine sense, brave perseverance, earnest affection- 
ateness, and unfailing truth, which, when seen from the romantic point of view, 
are suggestive of all the poetry which it is within the province of woman to 
write. 

I have not cl^Aen to dwell upon the faults in her works ; such labor is more 
fit for other hands, and other days ; and so many who attempt criticism seem 
to think the whole art lies in the detection of blemishes, that one may some- 
times be pardoned for lingering as fondly as I have done, upon an author's 
finer qualities. It must be confessed, that in her poems there is evinced a too 
unrestrained partiality for particular forms of expression, and that — it could 
scarcely be otherwise in a collection so composed — thoughts and fancies are 
occasionally repeated. In some instances too, her verse is diffuse, but general- 
ly, where this objection is made, it mil be found that what seems most careless 
and redundant is only delicate shading : she but turns her diamonds to the va- 
rious rays ; she rings no changes till they are not music ; she addresses an eye 
more sensitive to beauty and a finer ear;, than belong to her critics. The col- 
lection of her works is one of the most charming volumes that woman has con- 
tributed to literature ; of all that we are acquainted with the most womanly ; 
and destined, for that it addresses with truest sympathy and most natural elo- 
quence the commonest and noblest affections, to be always among the most 
fondly cherished Books of the Heart. 

Reluctantly I bring to a close these paragraphs — a hasty and imperfect 
tribute, from my feehngs and my judgment, to one whom many will remember 
long as an impersonation of the rarest intellectual and moral endowments, as 
one of the loveliest characters in literary or social history. Hereafter, unless 
the office fall to some one worthier, I may attempt from the records of our 
friendship, and my own and others' recollections, to do such justice to her hfe 
and nature, that a larger audience and other times shall feel how much of beau- 
ty with her spirit left us. 

This requiem she wrote for another, little thinking that her friends would so 
Boon sing it with hearts saddened for her own departure. 

The hand that swept the soiuiding lyre But angel hands shall bring her balm 
With more than mortal skill, " For everj- grief she knew, 

The lightning eye, the heart of fire, And Heaven's soft harps her soul shall calm 
The fer\-cnt lip are still : With music sweet and true ; 

No more in rapture or in wo, And teach to her the holy charm 
With melody to thrill, Of Israfel anew. 

Ah ! nevermore ! For evermore I 

Oh ! bring the flowere she cherish'd so, Love's silver Ij-re she played so well, 
With eager child-like care ; Lies shattered on her tomb ; 

For o'er her grave they'll love to grow, But still in air its music-spell 
And sigh their sorrow there ; Floats on through light and gloom. 

Ah me ! no more their bahny glow And in the hearts where soft they fell. 
May soothe her heart's de'spair, Her words of beauty bloom 

No ! nevermore I For evermore 1 



A LETTER FROM CHANCELLOR WALWORTH. 

TO THE EDITRESS OF "THE MEMORIAL." 

Dear Madam : I am unworthy to have my name associated 
with the names of the talented and highly gifted writers whose 
beautiful productions will enrich and adorn your monumental 
volume, as it was my misfortune to be deprived of the unapprecia- 
ble advantages of a liberal education. I was literally graduated 
behind the plough, after having passed through a fitting course of 
preparatory studies, by the aid of the ferules of such country peda- 
gogues as were entrusted with the care and education of the youth 
in our common-schools at the close of the eighteenth century. 
Filial duty, however, requires me to admit, that in obtaining an 
ordinary common-school education, I was deeply indebted to one 
now gone to her rest in Heaven, who was most competent to in- 
struct her children in their initiatory studies. 

It was my happiness in early life to be blessed with the coun- 
sels and the instructions of a most intelligent, pious, and devoted 
mother, who watched over the tender years of infancy and the 
dawnings of my opening manhood with much more than a mother's 
ordinary attention. True, the cares of a very large family did not 
allow that mother the necessary time, even if she had possessed all 
the requisite qualifications, to conduct her children up the more 
rugged and difficult paths of human knowledge. But she could 
and did direct their early attention to the entrances into those 
paths ; and she also pointed out to them, with all the solicitude 
of a truly Christian mother's love, the elevated and splendid goal 
of usefulness and happiness to which those paths are sure to lead 
those who follow them with due diligence, and with a proper 
rehance upon the Divine aid. She also strove with all that energy 
which the fondest affection for her ofispring can give to a mother's 



32 A LETTER FROM CHANCELLOR WALWORTH. 

faithful counsels, to convince her children that the ways of 
wisdom and knowledge, though at times toilsome and of very 
difficult ascent, were not actually inaccessible to any of them ; and 
that they were far more pleasant and safe than the dark and 
precipitous paths of ignorance and folly. 

It was that excellent and devoted mother who early taught me 
to seek the society, to cultivate the friendship, to venerate the char- 
acter, and to endeavor to emulate the virtues of all the talented 
the pure, and the good. As our dear departed friend belonged to 
this elevated class of the children of the world, when she was with 
us, I cannot refuse your request to contribute this very brief note 
to be inserted in your work — the proceeds of which are to be 
devoted to the erection of a monument over the early grave of one 
who was so accomplished, so lovely, and so pure in heart. Permit 
ine, however, to say that Frances Sargent Osgood has already 
erected for herself, a monument far more enduring than sculptured 
marble. Her beautiful Floral Fancies, her exquisite Songs, and 
above all, her delightful Sacred Poems, will be read and admired 
by successive thousands long after the monumental stone which 
friendship is about to raise to her memory shall have been crum- 
bled to the earth by the unceasing attacks of the ruthless destroyer 
Time. The organism of matter endures but for a season ; but the 
beautiful scintillations of a true mind, like the soul itself, are im- 
mortal. 

When I first had the pleasure of meeting with the late Mrs. 
Osgood, it was in the Green Ride Cemetry, at Saratoga Springs, the 
summer previous to her death. It was near the last resting place 
of my dear sainted wife and my cherub child, upon whose hallow- 
ed graves I had just deposited my accustomed offering of fresh 
summer flowers. We there conversed upon the subject of thus 
decking with such emblems the graves of those we have loved ; 
and of the pleasure which the disembodied spirits of our departed 
friends, if permitted to revisit this world, would take in receiving 
these simple mementos of our continued affection. I afterwards 
frequently met the lovely poetess near the same sacred spot. 



We spoke of the blessedn^s of the dead, who had departed hence 
with joy and hope ; and we conversed, too, of those upon whose 
grass-covered places of sleeping no bright flowers were permitted 
to bloom. 

We stood together by that splendid monument which records 
the name and marks the premature grave of the inventor of the 
Eolian lute, which has given such a charm to the lengthened notes 
of solemn and holy melody. We there found the sculptured 
symbols of painting and poetry and music, blended with those 
of fleeting mortality, while the broken stem of the lately opened 
rose reminded us, that the young man in the flower of his 
youth may be suddenly cut down by the angel of death. 
But the placid sweetness of the lovely emblem of religion, which 
also adorns this beautiful memorial column, is admirably calculated 
to withdraw our thoughts from the mournful contemplation of all 
which is perishable here, to that sweet cherub of beatitude, that 
appropriate emblem of the sacred and eternal rest which awaits the 
true believer beyond the grave. 

Again, we directed our footsteps to that broken shaft which 
fraternal aftection has raised to the memory of a lovely child of 
genius : the youngest of the two youthful poetesses whose 
whose beautiful effusions and early deaths have deeply interested 
so many hearts. And we read together the melancholy poetic 
prediction which this short-lived child had so early made of her 
own too brief existence : 

" A few short years have rolled along, 

With mingled joy and pain, 
And I have passed — a broken tone, 

An echo of a strain." 

Near by this monument our eyes rested for a moment upon 
the gray marble slab with which a fond husband had marked his 
recollection of a youthful bride, who had 2:)rematurely withered in 
his arms, while the dew of her youth was still upon her. We 
lingered together where another imperfect column has been reared 
by a heart-stricken father to mark the early giave of an only 
son. The smiling boy was snatched from the embrace of his 



doting parent, when his mind was beginning to expand under the 
culture of education, and now rests here by the side of his once 
beautiful and noble Christian mother, who was taken to the arms 
of her Saviour just as her infant son was beginning to 'lisp her 
beloved name. Farther on we passed a marble scroll on which it 
was vainly attempted to illustrate a young mother's affection for 
her first born. And then w^e stood by a mound of fresh earth, 
upon which rested a bouquet of white but faded flowers, that 
marked the recent burial of a fair and smiling boy who in the 
summer of his existence had been snatched from the embraces of 
his parents, and consigned thus early to his dark and narrow 
home. As we lingered around these and other mementos of 
blighted hopes and withered affections, can you entertain a doubt 
that our dear friend discoursed most feelingly and beautifully of 
sundered ties and bleeding hearts ? 

As I stood by her side and thus conversed of death and the 
grave, I perceived that the flower of her own life was beginning to 
fade, and that the shadow-like destroyer had already marked her 
for his own. But I did not then anticipate that she would be 
called away so soon, that the wine of life was so nearly on its 
lees. I fondly hoped again to meet her here, when another sum- 
mer should have come around — hoped again to commune with her 
in the same hallowed place. But alas, she is gone ! She who had 
all the sweetest graces of humanity, now sleeps in the silence of 
the grave, where her body must rest until the trump of the 
Archangel shall awake the innumerable dead. Yet may we most 
confidently hope that her kind and gentle spirit which once so 
delighted in the sweet songs of earth, is now permitted to join 
in the still sweeter songs of the redeemed in Heaven. 
Yours, with respect, 

R. H. Walworth. 

Pine Grove, Saratoga Springs, September lY, 1850 



THE FLIGHT OF THE FALCOK 35 



THE FLIGHT OF THE FALCON. 

BY MARY E. HEWITT. 

The dove was the falcon's love, 

The dove with her tender breast — 
Ah ! weary the day that gave 

The dove to the kite's dark nest ! 
The moon from yon cloud to-night 

Upon the meadows and moor-land shines 
Oh, marked she the falcon's flight 

For the home where his own dove jDines ? 

There's a shadow on moor and mead, 

There's a cloud o'er the moon's fair breast ; 
And the falcon, with wings outspread, 

Hangs o'er the kite's dark nest. 
The famishing birds of prey 

Are hurrying through the night, 
But the dove with her falcon love 

Will have flown ere the morning light ! 



36 "HEAVEN LIES ABOUT US IN" OUR INFANCY." 



HEAVEN LIES ABOUT US IN OUR INFANCY." 

BT R. H. STODDARD. 

We walk in garments white, 

In childish pomp and state, 
Where Earth is bathed with light, 

And lies at Heaven's gate. 
And golden ladders rise 

Around us from the sod ; 
And up and down the skies, 

AVith winged sandals shod. 
The Angels come and go, the Messengers of God ! 

But by and by we stain 

The whiteness of our hearts ; 
And Heaven is lost again. 

And all its light departs : — 
Then more and more astray, 

Pursued by phantom Fears, 
And weeping day by day, 

We lose our sight in tears. 
And grope our way along the downward slope of years ! 



THE AlfGEL OF DEATH. 37 



THE ANGEL OF DEATH. 

BY GEORGE AUBREY, LORD BISHOP OF JAMAICA, 

Angel of Death, where art thou now ? 
Where do thy darkhng shadows gloom ? 
Rest they on Labor's flushing brow, 

Or Beauty's bloom ? 
Where'er thy hated footsteps glide, 
And horror dogs thy withering way. 
On tented plain, or stormy tide. 

Awhile delay! 

Yet linger on the battle field, 

Where man thy murderous spirit woos ; 

There barb the spear, and break the shield 

Of mortal foes ; 
Or go where fever spreads thy path. 
Or raves the wilderness simoom ; 
But yet avert thy fatal wrath 

From my loved home. 

The flowers that round my board have sprung. 
Have scarcely breathed the vernal air. 
And they are beautiful as young, 

And good as fair ; 
They sparkle on the lovely stem 
That all their nourishment supplies. 
Like stars that nobly diadem 

Their natal skies. 



88 THE ANGEL OF DEATH. 

Far from the scenes where passions rage, 

And envy and ambition glow, 

Their lives can scarcely swell the page 

Of human wo ; 
They mingle not with that gay throng, 
Who to the world their glory give ; 
They gladden but the little space 

Where'er they live. 

But when 't is past — and thou must come, 
Angel of Death, to this retreat, — 
0, then, another form assume. 

More mild and sweet ; 
Come as the Messenger of Peace, 
Come, as a friend in mercy given. 
To bid all earthly sorrows cease, 

And lead to Heaven. 

Angel of Death ! I know thee now — 
No spectral horrors with thee dwell, 
No horrid phantasy, l^ut those 

Of pain and hell. 
The Word — the living Word has told 
How calm, how hopeful is the tomb. 
O, thou, who hast the stone unrolled, 

Messiah, come ! 
New Yoek, June, 1850. 



REMEMBRANCE. 39 



REMEMBRANCE. 



BY S. G. GOODRICH. 



You bid the minstrel strike the lute, 
And wake once more a soothing tone — 

Alas, its strings — untuned — are mute, 
Or only echo moan for moan. 

The flowers around it twined are dead — 

And those who wreathed them there are flown- 

The spring that gave them bloom is fled. 
And withering frost is o'er them thrown. 

Poor lute — forgot mid strife and care, — 
I fain would try thy strings once more — 

Perchance some lingering tone is there — 
Some cherish'd melody of yore,. 

If flowers that bloomed no more are here. 

Their odors still around us cling — 
And though the loved are lost — still dear, 

Their memories may wake the string. 

I strike — but lo the wonted thrill, 
Of joy in sorrowing cadence dies — 

Alas — the minstrel's hand is chill, 
And the sad lute, responsive, sighs. 

'Tis ever thus — our life begins 

In Eden, and all fruit is sweet — 
"We taste, and knowledge with our sins 

Creeps to the heart and spoils the cheat. 



40 REMEMBRANCE. 



In youtli the sun brings light alone ; 

No shade then rests upon the sight- 
But when the dreamer's morn is flown 

We see the shadows — not the liirht. 



*»" 



I once found music everywhere — 
The whistle from the willow wrung, 

The string set in the window, there, 
Sweet measures to my fancy flung 

But now this dainty lute is dead. 
Or answers but to sigh and wail — 

Echoing the voices of the fled, 
Passing before me — dim and pale. 

Yet angel forms are in that train — 

And One upon the still air flings, 
Of woven melodies, a strain 

Down, trembHng, from Her heaven-bent wings 

'Tis past — that speaking Form is flown — 
But Memory's pleased and listening ear, 

Shall oft. recall that choral tone, 
To Love and Poetry so dear. 

And far away, in after time, 

Shall blended piety and love. 
Find fond expression in the rhyme, 

Bequeathed to earth from one above 



Poor lute — thy throbbing pulse is still- 
Yet all thy silence I forgive. 

That thus thy last, thy dying thrill, 
Would make Her gentle virtues live. 



THE SNOW-IMAGE. 

A CHILDISH MIRACLE. 

BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 

One afternoon of a cold winter's day, when the sun shone forth 
with chilly brightness, after a long storm, two children asked leave 
of their mother to rim out and play in the new-fallen snow. The 
eldest child was a little girl, whom, because she w^as of a tender 
and modest disposition, and was thought to be very beautiful, her 
parents, and other people that were familiar with her, used to call 
Violet. But her brother was known by the style and title of Peo- 
ny, on account of the ruddiness of his broad and round little phiz, 
which made everybody think of sunshine and great scarlet flowers. 
The father of these two children, a certain Mr. Lindsey, it is im- 
portant to say, was an excellent, but exceedingly matter-of-fact sort 
of man, a dealer in hardware, and was sturdily accustomed to take 
what is called the common-sense view of all matters that came un- 
der his consideration. With a heart about as tender as other 
people's, he had a head as hard and impenetrable, and therefore, 
perhaps, as empty, as one of the iron pots Avhich it was a part of 
his business to sell. The mother's character, on the other hand, 
had a strain of poetry in it, a trait of unworldly beauty, a delicate 
and dewy flower, as it were, that had survived out of her imagina- 
tive youth, and still kept itself alive amid the dusty realities of 
matrimony and motherhood. 

So, Violet and Peony, as I began with saying, besought their 

mother to let them run out and play in the new snow ; for, though 

it had looked so dreary and dismal, drifting downward out of the 

gray sky, it had a very cheerful aspect, now that the sun was 

shining on it. The children dwelt in a city, and had no wider 

4* 



42 THE SNOW-mAGE. 



play-place than a little garden before the house, divided by a white 
fence from the street, and with a pear-tree and two or three plum- 
trees overshadowing it, and some rose-bushes just in front of the 
parlor-windows. The trees and shrubs, however, were now leaf- 
less, and their twigs were enveloped in the light snow, which thus 
made a kind of wintry foliage, with here and there a pendant icicle 
for the fruit. 

" Yes, Violet — yes, my little Peony," said their kind mother ; 
" you may go out and play in the new snow." 

Accordingly, the good lady bundled up her darhngs in woollen 
jackets and wadded sacks, and put comforters round their necks, 
and a pair of striped gaiters on each little pair of legs, and worsted 
mittens on their hands, and gave them a kiss a piece, by way of a 
spell to keep away Jack Frost. Forth sallied the two children with 
a hop-skip-and-jump, that carried them at once into the very heart 
of a huge snow-drift, whence Violet emerged like a snow-bunting, 
while httle Peony floundered out with his round face in full bloom. 
Then Avhat a merry time had they ! To look at them, frolicking in 
the wintry garden, you would have thought that the dark and piti- 
less storm had been sent for no other purpose but to provide a new 
plaything for Violet and Peony ; and that they themselves had 
been created, as the snow-birds were, to take delight only in the 
tempest, and in the white mantle which it spread over the ear^h. 

At last, when they had frosted one another all over with hand- 
fuls of snow, Violet, after laughing heartily at little Peony's figure, 
was struck with a new idea. 

"You look exactly hke a snow-image. Peony," said she, "if 
your cheeks were not so red. And that puts me in mind ! Let 
us make an image out of snow — an image of a little girl — and it 
shall be our sister, and shall run about and play with us all winter 
long. Won't it be nice ?" 

" Oh, yes !" cried Peony, as plainly as he could speak, for he 
was but a little boy. " That will be nice ! And mamma shall 
see it !" 

" Yes," answered Violet ; " mamma shall see the new little girl. 



THE SNOW-IMAGE. 43 



But she must not make lier come into the warm parlor ; for, you 
know, our little snow-sister will not love the warmth." 

And, forthwith, the children began this great business of making 
a snow-image that should run about — while their mother, who was 
sitting at the window and overheard some of their talk, could not 
help smiling at the gravity with which they set about it. They 
really seemed to imagine that there would be no difficulty what- 
ever in creating a live little girl out of the snow. And, to say the 
truth, if miracles are ever to be wrought, it will be by putting our 
hands to the work, in precisely such a simple and undoubting frame 
of mind as that in which Violet and Peony now undertook to per- 
form one, without so much as knowing that it was a miracle. So 
thought the mother ; and thought, likewise, that the new snow, 
just fallen from heaven, would be excellent material to make new 
beings of, if it were not so very cold. She gazed at the children a 
moment longer, delighting to watch their little figures — the girl, 
tall for her age, graceful and agile, and so delicately colored, that she 
looked like a cheerful thought, more than a physical reality — while 
Peony expanded in breadth rather than height, and rolled along 
on his short and sturdy legs, as substantial as an elephant, though 
not quite so big. Then the mother resumed her work ; what it 
was I forget ; but she was either trimming a silken bonnet for 
Violet, or darning a pair of stockings for little Peony's short legs. 
Again, however, and again, and yet other agains, she could not 
help turning her head to the window, to see how the children got 
on with their snow-image. 

Indeed, it was an exceedingly pleasant sight, those bright little 
souls at their tasks ! Moreover, it was really wonderful to observe 
how knowingly and skilfully they managed the matter. Violet 
assumed the chief direction, and told Peony what to do, while, 
with her own delicate fingers, she shaped out all the nicer parts of 
the snow-figure. It seemed, in fact, not so much to be made by 
the children, as to grow up under their hands, while they were 
playing and prattling about it. Their mother was quite surprised 



44 THE SNOW-IMAGE. 



at this ; and the longer she looked, the more and more surprised 
she grew. 

" What remarkable children mine are !" thought she, smiling 
with a mother's pride ; and smiling at herself, too, for being so 
proud of them. " What other children could have made anything 
so like a little girl's figure out of snow, at the first trial ? Well ; 
— but now I must finish Peony's new frock; for his grandfather is 
coming to-morrow, and I want the little fellow to look as handsome 
as possible." 

So she took up the frock, and was soon as busily at work again 
with her needle, as the two children with their snow-image. But 
still, as the needle travelled hither and thither through the seams 
of the dress, the mother made her toil light and happy by hstening 
to the airy voices of Violet and Peony. They kept talking to one 
another all the time — their tongues being quite as active as their 
feet and hands. Except at intervals, she could not distinctly hear 
what was said, but had merely a sweet impression that they were 
in a most loving mood, and were enjoying themselves highly, and 
that the business of making the snow-image went prosperously on. 
ISTow and then, however, when Violet and Peony happened to raise 
their voices, the words were as audible as if they had been spoken 
in the very parlor, where the mother sat. Oh, how delightfully 
those words echoed in her heart, even though they meant nothing 
so very wise or wonderful, after all ! 

But, you must know, a mother hstens with her heart, much 
more than with her ears ; and thus she is often delighted with the 
trills of celestial music, when other people can hear nothing of the 
kind. 

" Peony, Peony !" cried Violet to her brother, who had gone to 
another part of the garden ; " bring me some of that fresh snow, 
Peony, from the very furthest corner, where we have not been 
trampling. I want it to shape our little snow-sister's bosom with. 
You know that part must be quite pure — -just as it came out of the 
sky !" 

" Here it is, Violet !" answered Peony, in his bluflf tone — but a 



THE SNOW IMAGE. 45 



very sweet tone, too — as he came floundering through the half- 
trodden drifts. " Here is the snow for her Httle bosom. Oh, 
Violet, how beau-ti-ful she begins to look !" 

"Yes," said Violet, thoughtfully and quietly ; "our snow-sister 
does look very lovely. I did not quite know. Peony, that we could 
make such a sweet little girl as this." 

The mother, as she listened, thought how fit and delightful an 
incident it would be, if fairies, or, still better, if angel-children were 
to come from Paradise, and play invisibly with her own darlings, 
and help them to make their snow-image — giving it the features of 
celestial babyhood ! Violet and Peony would not be aware of their 
immortal playmates — only they would see that the image grew 
very beautiful, while they worked at it, and would think that they 
themselves had done it all. 

" My little girl and boy deserve such playmates, if mortal chil- 
dren ever did !" said the mother to herself; and then she smiled 
again at her own motherly pride. 

Nevertheless, the idea seized upon her imagination ; and, ever 
and anon, she took a glimpse out of the window, half-dreaming 
that she might see the golden-haired children of Paradise, sporting 
with her own golden-haired Violet and bright-cheeked Peony. 

Now, for a few moments, there was a busy and earnest, but 
indistinct hum of the two children's voices, as Violet and Peony 
wrought together with one happy consent. Violet still seemed to 
be the guiding spirit : while Peony acted rather as a laborer, and 
brought her the snow from far and near. And yet the little 
urchin evidently had a proper understanding of the matter, too ! 

" Peony, Peony !" . cried Violet ; for her brother was again at 
the other side of the garden. " Bring me those light wi-eaths of 
snow that have rested on the lower branches of the pear-tree. 
You can clamber on the snow-drift. Peony, and reach them easily. 
I must have them to make some ringlets for our snow-sister's 
head !" 

" Here they are, Violet !" answered the little boy. " Take care 
you do not break them. Well done ! Well done ! How pretty!" 



46 THE SNOW-IMAGE. 



" Does she not look sweetly ?" said Violet, with a very satisfied 
tone, " and now we must have some little shining bits of ice, to 
make the brightness of her eyes. She is not finished yet. Mamma 
will see how very beautiful she is ; but papa will say, * Tush ! 
nonsense ! — come in out of the cold !' " 

" Let us call mamma to look out," said Peony ; and then he 
shouted lustily, " Mamma ! mamma ! ! mamma ! ! ! Look out, and 
see what a nice 'ittle girl we are making !" 

The mother put down her work, for an instant, and looked out 
of the window. But it so happened that the sun — for this was 
one of the shortest days of the whole year — had sunken so nearly 
to the edge of the world, that his setting shine came obliquely into 
the lady's eyes. So she was dazzled, you must understand, and 
could not very distinctly observe what was in the garden. Still, 
however, through all that bright, blinding dazzle of the sun and 
the new snow, she beheld a small white figure in the garden, that 
seemed to have a wonderful deal of human likeness about it. And 
she saw Violet and Peony — indeed, she looked more at them than 
at the image — she saw the two children still at work ; Peony 
bringing fresh snow, and Violet applying it to the figure, as scien- 
tifically as a sculptor adds clay to his model. Indistinctly as she 
discerned the snow-child, the mother thought to herself, that never 
before w^as there a snow-figure so cunningly made, nor ever $uch a 
dear little ^rl and boy to make it. 

" They do everything better than other children," said she, very 
complacently. " Then no wonder they make better snow-images !" 

She sate down again to her work, and made as much haste with 
it as possible; because twilight would soon come, and Peony's 
frock was not yet finished, and grandfather was expected, by rail- 
road, pretty early in the morning. Faster and faster, therefore, 
went her flying fingers. The children, likewise, kept busily at 
work in the garden, and still the mother listened, whenever she 
could catch a word. She was amused to observe how their little 
imaginations had got mixed up with what they were doing, and 



THE SNOW-IMAGE. 47 



were carried away by it. Tliey seemed positively to think that 
the snow-child would run about and play with them. 

" What a nice playmate she will be for us, all winter long !'' 
said Violet. " I hope papa will not be afraid of her giving us a 
cold ! Shan't you love her dearly, Peony ?" 

" O, yes !" cried Peony. " And I will hug her, and she shall 
sit down close by me, and drink some of my warm milk 1" 

" Oh no, Peony !'' answered Violet, with grave wisdom. " That 
will not do at all. Warm milk will not be wholesome for our 
little snow-sister. Little snow-people, like her, eat nothing but 
icicles. No, no. Peony ; — we must not give her anything warm 
to drink !" 

There was a minute or two of silence ; for Peony, whose short 
legs were never weary, had gone on a pilgrimage again to the other 
side of the garden. All of a sudden, Violet cried out, loudly and 
joyfully :— 

" Look here. Peony ! Come quickly ! A light has been shining 
on her cheek out of that rose-colored cloud ! — and the color does 
not go away ! Is not that beautiful V 

" Yes ; it is beau-ti-ful," answered Peony, pronouncing the three 
syllables with deliberate accuracy. " Oh, Violet, only look at her 
hair ! It is all like gold !" 

" Oh, certainly," said Violet, with tranquillity, as if it were very 
much a matter of course. " That color, you know, comes from 
the golden clouds, that we see up there in the sky. She is almost 
finished now. But her lips must be made very red — redder than 
her cheeks. Perhaps, Peony, it will make them red, if we both 
kiss them !" 

Accordingly, the mother heard two smart little smacks, as if 
both her children were kissing the snowMmage on its frozen mouth. 
But, as this did not seem to make the lips quite red enough, 
Violet next proposed that the snow-child should be invited to kiss 
Peony's scarlet cheek. 

" Come, 'ittle snow-sister, kiss me !" cried Peony. 



48 THE SNOW-IMAGE. 



" There ! She has kissed you," added Violet, " and now her lips 
are very red. And she blushed a little, too !" 

" Oh, what a cold kiss !" cried Peony. 

Just then, there came a breeze of the pure west wind, sweeping 
through the garden and rattling the parlor-windows. It sounded 
so wintry cold, that the mother was about to tap on the window- 
pane with her thimbled finger, to summon the two children in ; 
when they both cried out to her with one voice. The tone was 
not a tone of surprise, although they were evidently a good deal 
excited; it appeared rather as if they were very much rejoiced at 
some event that had now happened, but which they had been 
looking for, and had reckoned upon all along. 

" Mamma ! mamma ! We have finished our little snow-sister, 
and she is running about the garden with us !" 

" What imaginative little beings my children are !" thought the 
mother, putting the last few stitches into Peony's frock. " And 
it is strange, too, that they make me almost as much a child as 
they themselves are ! I can hardly help believing, now, that the 
snow-image has really come to life !" 

" Dear mamma," cried Violet, " pray look out, and see what a 
sweet playmate we have !" 

The mother, being thus entreated, could no longer delay to look 
forth from the window. The sun was now go.ie out of the sky, 
leaving, however, a rich inheritance of his brightness among those 
purple and golden clouds which make the sunsets of winter so 
magnificent. But there was not the slightest gleam or dazzle, 
either on the window or on the snow ; so that the good lady could 
look all over the garden, and see every thing and every body in it. 
And what do you think she saw there ? Violet and Peony, of 
course, her own two darling children. Ah, but whom or what did 
she see besides ? Why, if you will believe me, there was a small 
figure of a girl, dressed all in white, with rose-tinged cheeks and 
ringlets of golden hue, playing about the garden with the two 
children. A stranger though she was, the child seemed to be on 
as familiar terms with Violet and Peony, and they with her, as if 



THE SNOW-IMAGE. 



49 



all the three had been playmates during the whole of their little 
lives. The mother thought to herself, that it must certainly be 
the daughter of one of the neighbors, and that, seeing Violet and 
Peony in the garden, the child had run across the street to play 
with them. So this kind lady went to the door, intending to 
invite the little runaway into her comfortable parlor ; for, now that 
the sunshine was withdrawn, the atmosphere, out of doors, was 
already growing very cold. 

But, after opening the house-door, she stood an instant on the 
threshold, hesitating whether she ought to ask the child to 
come in, or whether she should even speak to her. Indeed, she 
almost doubted whether it were a real child, after all, or only a 
light wreath of the new-fallen snow, blown hither and thither 
about the garden by the intensely cold west-wind. There was cer- 
tainly something very singular in the aspect of the little stranger. 
Among all the children of the neighborhood, the lady could 
remember no such face, with its pure white, and delicate rose- 
color, and the golden ringlets tossing about the forehead and 
cheeks. And as for her dress, which was entirely of white, and 
fluttering in the breeze, it was such as no reasonable woman would 
put upon a little girl, when sending her out to play, in the depth 
of winter. It made this kind and careful mother shiver only to 
look at those small feet, with nothing in the world on them, except 
a very thin pair of white slippers. Nevertheless, airily as she was 
clad, the child seemed to feel not the slightest inconvenience from 
the cold, but danced so lightly over the snow that the tips of her 
toes left hardly a print in its surface ; while Violet could but just 
keep pace with her, and Peony's short legs compelled him to lag 
behind. 

Once, in the course of their play, the strange child placed her- 
self between Violet and Peony, and taking a hand of each, skipt 
merrily forward, and they along with her. Almost immediately, 
however. Peony pulled away his little fist, and began to rub it as 
if the fingers were tingling with cold ; while Violet also released 

herself, though with less abruptness, gravely remarking that it was 

5 



50 THE SNOW-IMAGK 



better not to take hold of hands. The white-robed damsel said 
not a word, but danced about, just as inerrily as before. If Violet 
and Peony did not choose to play with her, she could make just 
as good a playmate of the brisk and cold west-wind, which kept 
blowing her all about the garden, and took such liberties with her 
that they seemed to have been friends for a long time. All this 
while, the mother stood on the threshold, wondering how a little 
girl could look so much like a flying snow-drift, or how a snow- 
drift could look so very like a Httle girl. 

She called Violet, and whispered to her. 

" Violet, my darling, what is this child's name ?'* asked she. 
"Does she live near us ?" 

"Why, dearest mamma," answered Violet, laughing to think 
that her mother did not comprehend so very plain an affair, " this 
is our little snow-sister, whom we have just been making !" 

" Yes, dear mamma," cried Peony, running to his mother and 
looking up simply into her face. " This is our snow-image ! Is it 
not a nice 'ittle child ?" 

At this instant, a flock of snow-birds came flitting through the 
air. As was very natural, they avoided Violet and Peony. But — 
and this looked strange — they flew at once to the white-robed 
child, fluttered eagerly about her head, alighted on her shoulders, 
and seemed to claim her as an old acquaints nee. She, on her 
part, was evidently as glad to see these httle birds, old Winter's 
grand-children, as they were to see her, and welcomed them by 
holding out both her hands. Hereupon, they each and all tried to 
alight on her two palms and ten small fingers and thumbs, crowd- 
ing one another off", with an immense fluttering of their tiny wings. 
One dear little bird nestled tenderly in her bosom ; another put 
its bill to her hps. They were as joyous, all the while, and 
seemed as much in their element, as you may have seen them 
when sporting with a snow-storm. 

Violet and Peony stood laughing at this pretty sight ; for they 
enjoyed the merry time which their new playmate was having 



THE SNOW-IMAGE. 51 



with these small winged visitants, almost as much as if they 
themselves took part in it. 

" Violet," said her mother, greatly perplexed, " tell me the 
truth, without any jest. Who is this little girl ?" 

" My darling mamma," answered Violet, looking seriously into 
her mother's face, and apparently surprised that she should need 
any further explanation, " I have told you truly who she is. It 
is our little snow-image, which Peony and I have been making. 
Peony will tell you so, as well as I." 

"Yes, mamma!" asseverated Peony, with much gravity in his 
crimson Httle phiz. " This is 'ittle snow-child. Is not she a nice 
one ? But, mamma, her hand- is, oh, so very cold !" 

While mamma still hesitated what to think and what to do, 
the street-gate was thrown open, and the father of Violet and 
Peony appeared, wrapt in a pilot-cloth sack, with a fur-cap drawn 
down over his ears, and the thickest of gloves upon his hands. 
Mr. Lindsey was a middle-aged man, with a weary, and yet a happy 
look in his wind-flushed and frost-pinched face, as if he had been 
busy all day long, and was glad to get back to his quiet home. 
His eyes brightened at the sight of his wife and children, although 
he could not help uttering a word or two of surprise, at finding 
the whole family in the open air, on so bleak a day, and after 
sunset too. He soon perceived the little white stranger, sporting 
to and fro in the garden, like a dancing snow-wreath, and the 
flock of snow-birds fluttering about her head. 

" Pray, what little girl may that be f" inquired this very sen- 
sible man. " Surely her mother must be crazy, to let her go out 
in such bitter weather as it has been to-day, with only that flimsy 
white gown, and those thin slippers !" 

" My dear husband," said his wife, " I know no more about the 
little thing than you do. Some neighbor's child, I suppose. Our 
Violet and Peony," she added, laughing at herself for repeating so 
absurd a story, "insist that she is nothing but a snow-image, 
which they have been busy about in the garden, almost all the 
afternoon." 



52 



THE SNOW-IMAGE. 



As she said this, the mother glanced her eyes towards the spot 
where the children's snow-image had been made. What was her 
surprise, on perceiving that there was not the slightest trace of so 
much labor ! — no image at all ! — no piled-up heap of snow ! — 
nothing whatever, save the prints of little footsteps around a 
vacant space. 

" This is very strange !'' said she. 

"What is strange, dear mother?" asked Violet. "Dear father, 
do not you see how it is ? This is our snow-image, which Peony 
and I have made, because we wanted another playmate. Did not 
we. Peony ?" 

" Yes, papa," said crimson Peony. " This be our 'ittle snow- 
sister. Is not she beau-ti-ful ? But she gave me such a cold 
kiss !"■ 

" Poh, nonsense, children !" cried their good, honest father, 
who, as we have already intimated, had an exceedingly common — 
sensible way of looking at matters. " Do not tell me of making 
live figures out of snow. Come, wife ; this little stranger must 
not stay out in the bleak air a moment longer. We will bring 
her into the parlor; and you shall give her a supper of warm 
bread and milk, and make her as comfortable as you can. Mean- 
while, I will inquire among the neighbors ; or, if necessary, send 
the city crier about the streets, to give notice of a lost child." 

So saying, this honest and very kind-hearted man was going 
towards the little white damsel, with the best intentions in the 
world. But Violet and Peony, each seizing their father by the 
hand, earnestly besought him not to make her come in. 

" Dear father," cried Violet, putting herself before him, " it is 
true, what I have been telling you ! This is our little snow-girl, 
and she cannot live any longer than while she breathes the cold 
west-wind. Do not make her come into the hot room 1" 

"•Yes, father," shouted Peony, stamping his little foot, so 
mightily was he in earnest, — " This be nothing but our 'ittle snow- 
child ! She will not love the hot fire !" 

" Nonsense, children, nonsense, nonsense !" cried the father, half- 



vexed, half-laughing at what he considered their foolish obstinacy. 
" Run into the house, this moment ! It is too late to play any 
longer, now. I must take care of "this little girl immediately, or 
she will catch her death-a-cold !" 

" Husband ! — dear husband !" said his wife, in a low voice ; for 
she had been looking narrowly at the snow-child, and was more 
perplexed than ever, — "There is something very singular in all 
this. You will think me foolish — but — but — may it not be that 
some invisible angel has been attracted by the simplicity and 
good-faith with which our children set about their undertaking ? 
May he not have spent an hour of his immortality in playing with 
those dear little souls ? — and so the result is what we call a 
miracle. • N'o, no ! Do not laugh at me, I see what a foohsh 
thought it is !" 

" My dear wife," replied the husband, laughing heartily, " you 
are as much a child as Violet and Peony." 

And, in one sense, so she was ; for, all through life, she had 
kept her heart full of child-like simplicity and faith, which was as 
pure and clear as crystal ; and, looking at all matters through this 
transparent medium, she sometimes saw truths, so profound, that 
other people laughed at them as nonsense and absurdity. 

But, now, kind Mr. Lindsey had entered the garden, breaking 
away from his two children, who still sent their shrill voices after 
-him, beseeching him to let the snow-child stay and enjoy herself 
in the cold west-wind. As he approached, the snow-birds took to 
flight. The little white damsel, also, fled backward, shaking her 
head as if to say — " Pray do not touch me !" — and roguishly, as 
it appeared, leading him through the deepest of the snow. Once, 
the good man stumbled, and floundered down upon his face ; so 
that, gathering himself up again, with the snow sticking to his 
rough pilot-cloth sack, he looked as white and wintry as a snow- 
image of the largest size. Some of the neighbors, meanwhile, 
seeing him from their windows, wondered what could possess poor 
Mr. Lindsey to be running about his garden in pursuit of a snow- 
drift, which the west-wind was driving hither and thither ! At 

5* 



54 THE SNOW-IMAGE. 



length, after a vast deal of trouble, he chased the little stranger 
into a corner, where she could not possibly escape him. His wife 
had been looking on, and, it being now nearly twilight, was wonder- 
struck to observe how the snow-child gleamed and sparkled, and 
how she seemed to shed a glow all round about her, and when 
driven into the corner, she positively glistened like a star ! It was 
a frosty kind of brightness, too, like that of an icicle in the moon- 
light. The wife thought it strange that good Mr. Lindsey should 
see nothing remarkable in the snow-child's appearance. 

" Come, you odd httle thing !'' cried the honest man, seizing her 
by the hand. " I have caught you at last, and will make you com- 
fortable in spite of yourself. We will put a nice warm pair of 
worsted stockings on your frozen little feet ; and you shall have a 
good thick shawl to wrap yourself in. Your poor white nose, I 
am afraid, is actually frost-bitten. But we will make it all right. 
Come along in !'' 

And so, with a most benevolent smile on his sagacious visage, all 
purple as it was with the cold, this very well-meaning gentleman 
took the snow-child by the hand and led her towards the house. 
She followed him, droopingly and reluctant ; for all the glow and 
sparkle was gone out of her figure ; and, whereas, just before, she 
had resembled a bright, frosty, star-gemmed evening, with a crimson 
gleam on the cold horizon, she now looked as ciull and languid as 
a thaw. As kind Mr. Lindsey led her up the steps of the door, 
Violet and Peony looked into his face — their eyes full of tears 
which froze before they could run down their cheeks — and again 
entreated him not to brinjr their snow-imanje into the house. 

" Not bring her in !" exclaimed the kind-hearted man. " Why 
you are crazy, my little Violet ! — quite crazy, my small Peony ! 
She is so cold, already, that her hand has almost frozen mine, in 
spite of my thick gloves. Would you have her freeze to death ?" 

His wife, as he came up the steps, had been taking another long, 
earnest, almost awe-stricken gaze at the little white stranger. She 
hardly knew whether it was a dream or no ; but she could not 
help fancying that she saw the delicate print of Violet's fingers on 



the child's neck. It looked just as if, while Violet was shaping out 
the image, she had given it a gentle pat with her hand, and had 
neglected to smooth the impression quite away. 

"After all, husband," said the mother, recurring to her idea, that 
the angels would be as much delighted to play with Violet and 
Peony as she herself was, " after all, she does look strangely like a 
snow-image ! I do believe she is made of snow !" 

A puff of the west-wind blew against the snow-child ; and again 
she sparkled like a star. 

" Snow !" repeated good Mr. Lindsey, drawing the reluctant 
guest over his hospitable threshold. " No wonder she looks like 
snow. She is half-frozen, poor little thing ! But a good fire will 
- put everything to rights." 

Without further talk, and always with the same best intentions, 
this highly benevolent and common-sensible individual led the little 
white damsel — drooping, drooping, drooping, more and more — out 
of the frosty air, and into his comfortable parlor. A Heidenberg 
stove, filled to the brim with intensely burning anthracite, was 
sending a bright gleam through the isinglass of its iron-door, and 
causing the vase of water on its top to fume and bubble with 
excitement. A warm, sultry smell was diff*used throughout the 
room. A thermometer, on the wall farthest from the stove, stood 
at eighty degrees. The parlor was hung with red curtains, and 
covered with a red carpet, and looked just as warm as it felt. The 
difference betwixt the atmosphere here, and the cold, wintry twi- 
light, out of doors, was like stepping at once from Nova Zembla to 
the hottest part of India, or from the North-pole into an oven. 
Oh, this was a fine place for the little white stranger ! " 

The common-sensible man placed the snow-child on the hearth- 
rug, right in front of the hissing and fuming stove. 

"Now she will be comfortable !" cried kind Mr. Lindsey, rubbing 
his hands and looking about him, wath the pleasantest smile you 
ever saw. " Make yourself at home, my child !" 

Sad, sad, and drooping, looked the little white maiden, as she 
stood on the hearth-rug, with the hot blast of the stove striking 



56 THE SNOW-IMAGE. 



through her hke a pestilence. Once, she threw a glance wistfully 
towards the windows, and caught a glimpse through its red curtains, 
of the snovz-covered roofs, and the stars glimmering frostily, and 
all the delicious intensity of the cold night. The bleak wind 
rattled the window-panes, as if it were summoning her to come 
forth. But there stood the snow-child, drooping, before the hot 
stove ! 

But the common-sensible man saw nothing amiss. 

" Come, wife," said he, " let her have a pair of thick stockings 
and a woollen shawl or blanket directly ; and tell Dora to give her 
some warm supper as soon as the milk boils. You, Violet and 
Peony, amuse your little friend. She is out of spirits, you see, at 
finding herself in a strange place. For my part, I will go round 
amono; the neio-hbors, and find out where she belon<rs." 

The mother, meanwhile, has gone in search of the shawl and 
stockings ; for her own view of the matter, however subtle and 
delicate, had given way, as it always did, to the stubborn material- 
ism of her husband. Without heeding the remonstrances of her 
two children, who still kept murmuring that their little snow-sister 
did not love the warmth, good Mr. Lindsey took his departure, 
shutting the parlor-door carefully behind him. Turning up the 
collar of his sack over his ears, he emerged from the house, and 
had barely reached the street-gate, when he was recalled t^y the 
screams of Violet and Peony, and the rapping of a thimbled finger 
against the parlor-window. 

" Husband ! Husband !" cried his wife, showing her horror- 
stricken face through the window-panes. " There is no need of 
going for the child's parents !" 

" We told you so, father !" screamed Violet and Peony, as he 
reentered the parlor. " You would bring her in ; and now our 
poor — dear — beau-ti-ful little snow-sister is thawed !" 

And their own sweet little faces were already dissolved in tears ; 
so that their father, seeing what strange things occasionally happen 
in this every-day world, felt not a little anxious lest his children 
might be going to thaw too ! In the utmost perplexity, he 



THE SNOW-IMAGE. 57 



demanded an explanation of bis wife. She could only reply, that, 
being summoned to the parlor by the cries of Violet and Peony, 
she found no trace of the little white maiden, unless it were the 
remains of a heap of snow, which, while she was gazing at it, 
melted quite away upon the hearth-rug. 

" And there you see all that is left of it !" added she, pointing to 
a pool of water, in front of the stove. 

"Yes, father," said Violet, looking reproachfully at him, through 
her tears, " there is all that is left of our dear little snow-sister !" 

" Naughty father !" cried Peony, stamping his foot, and — I 
shudder to say — shaking his little fist at the common-sensible man. 
" We told you how it would be ! What for did you bring her 
in?" 

And the Heidenberg stove, through the isinglass of its door, 
seemed to glare at good Mr. Lindsey, like a red-eyed demon, 
triumphing in the mischief which it had done ! 

This, you will observe, was one of those rare cases, which yet 
will occasionally happen, where common-sense finds itself at fault. 
The remarkable story of the snow-image, though, to that sagacious 
class of people to whom good Mr. Lindsey belongs, it may seem 
but a childish affair, is, nevertheless, capable of being moralised in 
various methods, greatly for their edification. One of its lessons, for 
instance, might be, that it behoves men, and especially men of be- 
nevolence, to consider well what they are about, and, before acting 
on their philanthropic purposes, to be quite sure that they compre- 
hend the nature and all the relations of the business in hand. 
What has been established as an element of good to one being, 
may prove absolute mischief to another ; even as the warmth of 
the parlor was proper enough for children of flesh and blood, like 
Violet and Peony — though by no means very wholesome, even for 
them — but involved nothing short of annihilation to the unfortu- 
nate snow-image. 

But, after all, there is no teaching anything to wise men of good 
Mr. Lindsey's stamp. They know everything — Oh, to be sure ! — 
everything that has been, and everything that is, and everything 



58 THE SNOW-IMAGE. 



that, by any future possibility, can be. And, should some phe- 
nomenon of Nature or Providence transcend their system, they 
will not recognise it, even if it come to pass under their very noses. 
"Wife," said Mr, Lindsey, after a fit of silence, "see what a 
quantity of snow the children have brought in on their feet ! It 
has made quite a puddle here before the stove. Pray tell Dora to 
bring some towel« and sop it up I'* 



THE BLESSED RAIK 59 



THE BLESSED RAIN. 



BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY. 



I WOKE, and heard the dropping of the rain, 
So long withheld, that to my ear it seem'd 
The richest music. 

And methought, a voice 
Of praise went up, from every drooping spray, 
And crisping grass-blade, unto Him whose love 
Had not forget them in their low estate, 
But sent a comforter ; to Him, who still 
In all the thirst and fever of our sins 
Remembereth us with mercy. 

Then, the vine 
That o'er my casement mantled, whispering taught 
Her topmost leaves to bow themselves, and shed 
The sweet redundance of God's bounteous gift 
On their less favor'd sisters, who beneath 
Dwelt in the shade, till the whole family 
Rejoiced together. 

Cowering at their feet 
Was an unsightly, and unnurtur'd thing 
Noteless and dry, — yet pitiful they bent 
In the full pride of their prosperity, 
And freely shook their superflux of wealth 
Into its wither'd bosom, brown with dust, 
Till the poor mendicant look'd up and smiled. 



60 THE BLESSED KAIN. 



Then, all symphonious, breathed a strain of praise 
From harp and tabret of the secret soul, 
Heard by the listening Angel of the Flowers, 
Who bore it up to heaven. 

Oh, Mother Vine, 
Training thy children in the blessed ways 
Of charity, retouch within our souls 
The Savior's sweet monition, — " Lo ! the poor 
Are always with you, and whate'er ye do 
In their behalf, with lowliness and love, 
Is done to me." 



MY FRIENDS. 



Y ALFRED B. STREET. 



I had four friends in that enchanted season 

When youth o'er all things sheds its golden glow ; 
When Fancy's empire is our world, and Reason 

Over that empire seeks no shade to throw. 
Oh foiry time ! oh season full of sweetness ! 

Why hast thou fled and left me so forlorn ? 
Time to the happy hath a wing of fleetness, 

But oh how slow he steals to those who mourn. 

Those four loved friends ! how different, soul and feature, 

One from the other ! and yet each a gem. 
I wonder now that any hving creature 

I could have ever loved, as I did them. 
How fondly, fondly memory dwells upon them ! 

Lo here they stand as in old happy days ! 
Ere the false phantoms of the world had won them 

To wander darkly in its fatal ways. 

One was a spirit fiery, headlong, eager, 

Ever the foremost in each daring game ; 
Mock swords he'd wield, and snow-built forts beleagues, 

With voice all fury, and with eye all flame. 
Ah my poor friend ! fast, fast he now is sleeping 

On the red field where he so bravely fought ; 
The moss-robed cypress watch above him, keeping — 

All, all his burning dreams of glory naught. 



62 MY FRIENDS. 



Well I remember the bright morn he left me 

For Montezuma's halls, far, far away ; 
It seemed as if the sunshine was bereft me ; 

Lone, oh how lone I felt for many a day ! 
At length the tidings came ; — he fell whilst dashing 

Into the battle's reddest, wildest wave — 
The war-shout on his tongue — his good sword flashing 

Above his head — the bravest of the brave. 

The other was a youth all soft and pensive, 

Thought in his eye and genius on his brow ; 
In our wild sports he acted the defensive. 

To our boys' tyranny did naught but bow. 
Oft would he steal away to some lone dingle. 

And in the grass extend himself for hours. 
Watching the shadow and the sunlight mingle, 

Talking with birds, and making love to flowers. 

Alas, the mild ! alas, the gentle-hearted ! 

Alas, alas the suffering child of song ! 
Dream after dream from his wrung soul departed, 

He fondly looked for right and found but wrong. 
Lays did he sing of sweet and tender beauty, 

Yet fail to win the world's capricious breath, 
His lyre he broke to cold and iron Duty, 

And faded, meek and silent, into death. 

The third was thoughtful too, but strong and fearless. 

Formed to lead men ; to mould their minds at will ; 
To tread, no matter how forlorn and cheerless, 

The path of life, unbent, and hopeful still. 
First of his class^with deep and careful study 

He stored his mind — and though he bent not o'er 
The poet's page, from actions stern and bloody 

He also turned to seek a different lore. 



MY FRIENDS. 



63 



Alas, the calm ! alas, the proud high-minded ! 

What though he scaled the hill with haughty tread ! 
There did he stand, with vision almost blinded. 

With almost every hue from being fled. 
What was his fame ! his best hours had he wasted 

To win the garland, worthless now 'twas gained ! 
Bitter the cup at first so fondly tasted ! 

His youth was gone, and what, oh what remained ! 

The fourth and last — a young girl sweet and tender ! 

With smiles so radiant, and such holy eyes, 
None could behold her, and not homage render. 

As if she were some wanderer from the skies. 
Her simple tones were music, oh how thrilling ! 

Her laugh was like the warble of a bird ! 
And when she wept, you felt your own eyes filling 

As if some seraph's sorrowing moan you heard. 

At length her smiles came less and less and vanished — 

Tears came more often, and her cheek turned pale — 
Her eyes grew holier — her light step was banished — 

And day by day her being seemed to fail. 
Ay, day by day we saw the dear one fading, 

Nor knew we what with life so wildly strove, 
Till with last breathy but oh, with no upbraiding. 

She named the cause of death — forsaken love 



64 RESURRECTIOlf. 



RESURRECTION. 



BY GEORGE LUNT. 



Oh fool ! to judge, that He, who from the earth 
Created man, cannot his frame restore — 
The scattered elements from every shore 

Call back and clothe with a celestial birth ! 

See from its sheath the buried seed break forth, 
Blade, stalk, leaf, bud, and now the perfect flower, 
Changing, and yet the same ; and of His power 

A token each ! And art thou counted worth 

Less than the meanest herb ? Changed from the dust, 

And little lower than the angels made ; 

More changed by sin, — to death itself betrayed, — 
Yet heir of Heaven, by an immortal trust ! — 

Doubtless unwise, in reason's narrow school, 

Well might the great apostle say, " Thou Fool 1" 



ADMIRATION. 

BY RET. E. L. MAGOOJf. 

" We live through admiration, hope, and love." 

The above saying of the poet we believe to be true as gospel ; and 
if you will give heed, gentle reader, we will thereupon preach you 
a short sermon. The following are our points : — we can " live 
through admiration, hope, and love ;" if we are wise, we will so 
live ; and, to be happy, we must live after the mode by the poet 
prescribed. 

In the first place, we are constituted with power to know what 
is worthy of esteem, and to become sagacious in the use of this 
faculty just in proportion to the exercise of generous love. He 
who made the human soul, planted therein the capacity to admire, 
and designed the cultivation of this to be at once the foundation 
of our best virtue, and the source of our highest joy. Brute 
creatures stupidly rove on with eyes directed towards the earth, 
from which their nutriment is obtained, but man is endowed with 
a diviner prerogative. He can at once survey the garniture of earth, 
and the canopy of heaven, pluck gems from the ocean, gather fra- 
grance from the mountains, and thence soar to revel amid the 
glories of unnumbered worlds. 

In the image of God was man made, a creature of mind. 

Earth was perfected and placed under his feet, the pedestal of a 

mightier creation, with the glory of heavenly intellect on his brow. 

About him, every thing fragrant, and beautiful, and sublime, was 

made to ascend ; but he, in the free exercise of spiritual powers, 

more magnificent than all material things, couJd at will soar above 

thera all. He was made to look up, and to find his highest good 

6* 



66 ADMIRATION. 



in forever aspiring after something higher and better than this 
world could show. 

There can be no stronger argument of God's utter aversion to 
sin, than his having endowed us with a nature which sin torments, 
so that we cannot be reconciled to it ourselves. His mercy is 
equally signalized, not only in the means provided for our rescue, 
but in preserving to our race so much of mental vigor, despite the 
ruins sin hiis produced. There is nothing good and enduring in 
this world unconnected with thought. In every vigorous concep- 
tion of the mind there is latent power, as an oak is enclosed in an 
acorn. The children of the soul cannot die. The obscure thinker, mi- 
ning amidst the hidden treasures of his spirit, under the silent cano- 
py of stars, or by the flickerings of his lonely lamp, is offering, upon 
the altar of eternity, creations which are to pass into other nations, 
and distant lands — impressions destined to glow through intermina- 
ble ijenerations, when the heart that conceived them has lonof since 
crumbled into common dust. For weal or wo, the capacity of 
thought in man is fearfully great. In moral architecture, this crea- 
tive power is everything. It gave Milton heaven, it gave Dante 
hell. The mental eye, which alone gives value to the mightiest 
telescope, can seize in the vast azure of waters, or the vaster ocean 
of air, a new world, like Columbus, or a new planet, like Herschel. 
The master of thought is he to whom the soul and all the, world 
of its sway belongs. What has changed the whole process of 
modern commerce, and carried civilization to the remotest regions 
of our i^lobe ? The thouo-ht of Watt and Fulton. What discovered 
the mechanism of the universe, and traced the law that governs 
all, in the fall of an apple ? The thought of Newton. What 
swept the chords of a harp, and sent thrilling music to cheer and 
ennoble man in his progress westward round the world ? The 
thought of David and Homer. Thought touched the granite, and 
vast pyramids, symbolizing souls vaster and more lasting than 
material grandeurs, commemorate that which nerved hands now 
buried in the dust of four thousand years. Thought touched the 
marble, and in attitude sublime, or fascinating form, that thought 



endures from age to age, with unwasting charms. Thought 
touched the canvass, thereon to live and glow in perpetual bloom. 
Thought touched a frail leaf of papyrus, and its inscriptions be- 
came more enduring than states and empires. Thought touched a 
lonely reed, formed the fragile thing into a pen, and made it 
mightier than sceptres, more potent than the whole world's accu- 
mulated munitions of war : — 



" It smote the smiter, and it broke the chain ; 
Or towering o'er them all, without a plume, 
It pierced the purple air, the tempest's gloom ; 
'Till burst th' Olympian splendors on the eye — 
Stars, temples, thrones, and gods,— Infinity !" 

Intellect, however, is not the only exalted faculty of the soul, nor 
the best. In being made in the image of divinity, we have our ori- 
gin at the great fountain, and through the essence of all things, and 
can possess hfe only so far as we partake anew of the Spirt of Life, 
which is God, who, says the disciple of love, is Love. It is mer- 
cifully permitted to us to regain perfection by degrees, under the 
guidance of that true genius of love, the divine Eros, the only me- 
dium between earth and heaven, and combining in himself all that 
is excellent in both. Through affection we may attain moral 
quietude; and this, with perfect mental activity, constitutes all that 
we can conceive of angelic bliss, or of the majestic felicity of God. 

" The heart that loves, 
Dwells in an Eden, hearing angel-lutes, 
As Eve in the first garden." 

In the second place, we not only can live " through admiration, 
hope and love ;" but, if we are wise, we will so live. He who crip- 
ples his affections, makes a cannibal of his own heart. Cherubim 
are called knowing ones, and Seraphim loving ones ; they who are 
imbued with the best influences, and cultivate the best virtues, will 
combine the quahties of both, in themselves. The miser of money 
is a selfish fool, but the miser of affection is the most contemptible 
of all fools, because affection costs nothing. People who search con- 
stantly for faults, to feed their captiousness, are always mean, while 
those who discriminate excellence everywhere, in order to admire and 



68 ADMIRATION. 



encourage it, are invariably the noblest of their kind. Select the 
greatest and best of mankind, and you will perpetually find that 
in them, heart and head are symmetrical ; they have a double 
organ of vision, can see both sides of a thing, and are in an 
equal degree, the enlightened and the affectionate. The intellect 
may be invigorated by science, but the soul, that which is divi- 
nest within us, is most fed and fortified by the heart. As the 
passion for Iphigenia changed the nature of Cymon from the 
habit of a clown to refinement and courtesy ; so the admiration 
of excellence transforms its devotee from brutality, and exalts him 
to the highest state of cultivation and spiritual worth. Emerging 
from the gloom of sensuality, the aspiring soul shines forth ; 
emancipated from the body and its grovelling lusts, it rises with 
the strength of a giant, to become the vanquisher of every vice, 
and the possessor of every virtue. 

The true worship of a true man, was well personified by honest 
old Bunyan's " Great-Heart," — tender towards the feeble and fear- 
less before the strong. It is a great thing to have intellect, but 
much greater and better to have soul. The effeminate are usually 
the most cruel, while it is the universal characteristic of the brave 
to be merciful. Great excellence is sure to be most prompt in 
eliciting and fostering the obscurest worth. The softest down 
clothes the eagle's breast, a protection to its young, and a pano- 
ply against the fiercest storm. Hollow trees are the stififest, and 
persons of the fewest talents strive most to impede all talent. If 
one lays himself out generously for the general good, he will 
grow colossal like his purpose, and divine like his love. On the 
other hand, if he lays himself up in selfishness, he will soon find 
himself dry, the higher the drier, a miserable ossification of hu- 
manity, cursed of God, and scorned of man. 

We ^ have said that man is so constituted that he ca.n " hve 
through admiration, hope, and love ;" and that if he is wise he will 
so live. Let it be remarked, thirdly^ that, in order to secure 
happiness worthy of the name, we must live in the manner pre- 
scribed above. 




It has been shown that the genial and useful being is not sim- 
ply an effigy of learned dust, a mere dry thing of intellect. A 
fitter symbol was revealed to Johnj an angel standing in the sun, 
— indestructible mind invested with unclouded glory. When the 
head and heart are both free, and strike with simultaneous ardor, 
their united force constitutes consummate power. In such instances 
we have the nearest approach to " a sea of glass mingled with 
fire ;" the purest substance melted into sublime motion, and ren- 
dered doubly impresive by its splendid heat. And what is the 
most intense passion in such men ? Profound admiration. In 
every kingdom of nature, science, and art, they find much that 
creates and feeds delight. The loftiest spirits are always the widest 
likers. They understand full well that the bases of the arts touch 
each other, and that the same principles underlie and govern all. 
If RafFaelle lived in New York, he would be the kindest patron of 
all the young artists here. Michael Angelo stumbled upon the 
celebrated antique fragment, called the Torso, and pondered its 
intimations of majesty, till scrutiny grew into admiration, and thence 
originated the gigantic race of the Sistina. If his Prophets and 
Sibyls bend over us with superhuman grandeur, it is because that 
such was the habitual attitude of the mighty spirit from which 
they sprang. The most original creators of excellence, of every kind, 
are always those who, with a wise and friendly appreciation, make 
themselves most comprehensively acquainted with the good things 
which others have achieved. The most meritorious ever have the 
most ardent love of merit, and not only search for the best speci- 
mens with becoming assiduity, but judge every degree of worth in 
a manner best calculated to augment the capacity of the worthy. 
This is the reason, perhaps, why genius so generally appears in 
clusters. Let ten youth of rich and rare endowments be associated 
together in kindred pursuits, and each one will be ten times the 
greater proficient, on account of the proficiency and magnanimous 
emulation of each. Even mediocrity may be unconsciously lifted 
above itself, but when only mediocres attempt to have fellowship, 



70 ADMIRATION. 



how soon they will sting or throttle each other into destruction or 
disgrace ! 

Next to being admirable, there is nothing on earth so grand as 
admiration ; you may rest assijred the two are never divorced. 
The twelve manner of fruits on the tree of life, grow richer on the 
higher branches ; and if we are obliged constantly to reach yet 
higher for the best, it is in order that by thus reaching we may 
grow. It is a divine pleasure to admire, and in exercising this 
attribute, we appropriate to ourselves the best use of the qualities 
we fervently commend. The affections are the chief sources of 
thought, and as these are directed, the character is formed. The 
sages of antiquity, struck with the universal power of love, — the 
perfection of its assimilative principle, — assigned to it a divine 
character, and thus anticipated a prominent truth of Christianity. 
Plato taught that love takes away one's being in himself, and trans- 
fers it into the party loved. Paul, cognizant of this law in its 
highest exercise, described to the Romans how that, beholding the 
invisible things of God, clearly indicated by the things that are 
made, and contemplating, as in a mirror, their divine features with 
admiring gaze, we are changed into the same image from glory to 
glory, by the Spirit of the Lord. 

We insensibly imitate what we habitually admire, and when our 
regards for the merits of others are most kind, we become ourselves 
most imbued with attractions which all persons of merit will most 
kindly regard. Deep and generous emotions purify the thoughts 
much more effectually than tragedy, according to Aristotle, purities 
the passions. A genial spirit always gives more than it receives, 
and beautifies all it touches ; like a prism, not robbing the sun or 
earth of needful beams, but by the gentlest action causing the sim- 
plest element to assume the most exquisite combination of hues. 
Disinterested love liberalizes the soul of its possessor, widening the 
area of his freedom, and reveahng the secret of his strength. 
" And I also am a painter !" exclaimed Corregio, on beholding for 
the first time a master-piece. The spirit of intrinsic nobleness, 
prompt to admire excellence, is sure in the end to attain it. 



ADMIRATIOK 71 



The soul is constituted not only to admire and love, but to adore; 
and this is the only worship worthy of a rational creature, the only 
service our Maker asks and accepts at our hands. In the depths 
of infinite wisdom, and as if to provide against our impiety, he has 
encompassed us with every form of the beautiful and sublime, thus 
rendering it impossible for us, sometimes at least, not to be stim- 
ulated into adoration. But we are not to rest content with the 
complacency of Narcissus, self-enamored at the fountain. Nor are 
we to court the disastrous excitement produced by the statue of 
Apollo on the " Girl of Provence," — a devotion ending in madness 
and death. Our purest love and profoundest adoration are due 
Him in whom alone humanity coalesced with divinity, and consti- 
tuted a redeemer exactly adapted to our highest wants in this life, 
preparatory to the purest bliss in the next. 

If the sacred fire on ancient altars became extinct, it was rekin- 
dled only by the rays of the god of day. Love, renovated at the 
cross, like the sun in heaven, not only penetrates all mysteries, and 
reveals all worth, but invests the excellence it beholds with splen- 
dors, like itself, divine. It was the torch of love that animated the 
statue of Pygmalion, while to all others it was but marble still. It 
was said by Bishop Patrick of the inhabitants of his happy city, 
that the beauty on which they fix their eyes, imprints its own form 
upon their hearts, and makes them fair and lovely with the quali- 
ties which they delight to behold. May our contemplations of the 
" Chief among ten thousands, the one altogether lovely," be blessed 
indeed ! All things admonish us to turn our admiring thoughts 
towards those objects which are great, and good, and pure — the 
throne of Virtue, the majesty of Truth, the beauty of Hohness. 
The affections are immortal ligaments, and by them we may fasten 
our destiny to things eternal. They may be spread into unwearied 
pinions whereon to mount through the highest spiritual sky, 
" springing from crystal step to crystal step," and bathing the soul 
in living, hfe-giving ether forever. Oh ! why linger in the dust, 
when all sweet voices invite us to dwell above the stars ? 

Sweet voices ! Daughter of song, they ask me to contribute a 



72 ADMIRATION 



pebble to thy monument. It shall be the fairest I can at present 
command, and let them lay it deep in the ground, where it will be 
near the gentle decay of thy most gentle heart. One year ago 
this sultry week, we met at that Bethesda of our land, Saratoga. 
The melody of thy spirit awoke to my passing ear a few sweet 
echoes in the bowers through which living waters flow, and where 
sleep the dead. Thanks be to God, that when genial friendships 
lie shattered on the shore of time, it is still vouchsafed us forever 
to admire ! 
New- York, August, 1850. 




A CASTLE IN THE MOUNTAINS. 



T J. R. THOMPSON. 



The mountains in their places stand around 
A castellated mansion of old days, 
And in the rosy sunset's dying rays, 

Their summits with a halo seem encrowned ; 

The lake, a burnished mirror, lies below, 

Its surface flecked with, here and there, a boat, 
Whose rower's songs upon the evening float ; 

Thus music mingles with the western glow. 

To soothe the weary spirit to repose : 

1 mid such pleasant sights and sounds as these,- 
The plash of watei-s and the play of trees, — 

How smoothly on life's gentle current flows. 

Let but affection consecrate the place, 

And woman there diflfuse the sunlight of her grace ! 

Richmond, Va. 

73 



RELICS. 



RELICS. 



BY JAMES T. FIELDS. 



You ask me why, with such a jealous care 
I hoard these rings, this chain of silken hair, 
This cross of pearl, this simple key of gold ; 
And all these trifles which my hands enfold. 
I'll tell you, friend, why all these things become 
My blest companions when remote from home ; 
Why, when I sleep, these first secured I see, 
With wakeful eye, and guarded constancy : — 
Each little token, each familiar toy, 
My mother gave her once too happy boy : 
Her kiss went with them, — chide me then no more 
That I should count my treasures o'er and o'er, — 
Alas, she sleeps beneath the dust of years, 
And these dear flowers I water with my tears ! 



-' ? 




THE PURE SPOT IN THE HEART. 



;Y G. p. R. JAMES 



There is within the heart of man — 

Corrupt as it may be — 
A touch of that which Eden knew 

Ere Eve profaned the tree : 

A love of guileless innocence 

Forever lost, yet dear, 
Which makes the first worda^of a child 

All music to his ear. 

One time, in a far sunny land, 
And years long, long ago — 

A land of love, and tale, and song — 
I saw a scene of wo. 

I stood within four noisome walls 

That formed a felon's cell - 
I listened to his dark cold words, 

I marked his visage fell. 

Kind I bespoke him ; for I ne'er 

Could trample on a worm. 
And fain would raise each flower again 

That *s broken by the storm. 

After a sort, his bosom warmed : 

He spoke of his past hfe ; 
And many an awful deed he ownM, 

Told tales of bloody strife. 



76 THE PURE SPOT IN THE HEART. 

He was a man without remorse, 
Who feared nor God, nor fiend. 

Pleasure, not happiness, he'd found, 
Companions, but no friend. 

And there he was, next day to die 
For his worst deed of all, 

He'd murdered one who trusted him, 
For pittance bare and small. 

Yet no compunction he betray'd, 
No hope, no fear, no grief. « 

He seemed a man without a soul, 
And hard beyond belief. 

Yet as we talk'd, the sounds of life 
Came upward from the street. 

And mejjj^y laughs, and joyous tones, 
And children's voices sweet. 

At that last sound, a pleasant smile 

Pass'd o'er his iron face. 
Which seemed to give each haggard line 

A strange redeeming grace. 

" I love to hear a child's dear tongue," 
That man of horrors said, 

" It brings back days when I was young 
And by my mother playM, 

" And gather'd flowers and foolish things. 
And chased the butterfly. 
And little thought I thus should Hve — 
Still less, I thus should die." 

He fell into a fit of thought. 

His face grew cold and gray. 

No farther converse would he bear, 

I turn'd and went my way. 
Long Island, August 23, 1850. 



A PLEA FOR 

DREAMS, APPARITIONS, PRESENTIMENTS, &c. 



Y E. HELFENSTEIN. 



" The tear whose source I could not gness, jk 
The deep sigh that seemed fatherless, ^ 

Were mhie in early days ; 
And now, unforced by Time to part 
With Fancy, I obey my heart, 

And venture on your praise." — Words-worth. 



" If they believe not Moses and the prophets, neither will they 
be persuaded though one should rise from the dead." These words 
of the Divine Teacher have the vividness and authority of Truth. 
The mind, incapable of receiving the demonstrations of the Un- 
derstanding, the evidence of human testimony, and the authority 
of tradition, will be far less ready to accept the testimony supposed 
to come through the doubtful source of the Imagination. It 
would be curious to inquire into the reason why such contempt 
is cast upon this God-like faculty, one more arbitrarily distributed 
than any other, as though it were a best and final gift imparted 
richly only to the few. Indeed, all that is essential for our well- 
being in this world can be carried on through the help of other 
faculties ; we can be judicious, witty, provident, energetic, and 
loving, witl'out the aid of the Imagination ; and, therefore, the 
majority of mankind have it only in the rudimentary state ; and 
these are the dull wiseacres, who sneer at what they have not the 
instruments to measure ; laugh at what they cannot comprehend, 
and go about triumphantly flaunting their own deficiencies. 

A munificent bestowal of the Imagination, other things being 
equal, gives the man of enlarged and comprehensive views, the 
far-seer into truth, the prophetic observer, the Milton, or Shaks- 
peare, of the age. — It presents, as it were, wings to the soul ; im- 



78 A PLEA FOR DREAMS, APPARITIONS, <fec. 

parts aspiration ; gives a glow and elevation to all the other faculties 
of the mind — shaking them from the dust, and lifting them into a 
higher and better atmosphere. 

Now it is a curious fact, that all matters relating to the super- 
natural, are cast at once upon this faculty — thus giving it an om- 
nipotence of power. A knock heard at an unwonted hour is at 
once referred to the Imagination — any imusual form, sight, or 
movement, is imputed to an excitement of this organ. To me, 
this seems an exceeding unphilosophic, not to say indolent disposal 
of the matter. Ei|jaer these things did, or did not exist. I do not 
believe that a faculty that aided Shakspeare to comprehend the 
universal in the human mind, and the blind Milton to see all space 
peopled with beings intent upon missions from the Most High, 
Cromwell and Napoleon to detect the rottenness of empire, and 
Newton to grasp the impalpable chain that binds the Universe into 
one, was given to mislead, abuse, and trick us into fantastical spec- 
tacles. It is time we dared take hold of these matters manfully ; 
if truth be in them, accept it boldly, like any other truth — if not, 
reject it by the wholesale. 

" Do you believe, then ?" it may be asked. I believe so far as 
my own experience, and the testimony of others justify. I will 
not believe myself deluded and bewildered by what is going 
on around me. I will not believe that senses, which have 
served me accurately hitherto, can be put upon by some little ex- 
citement only to play me tricks. I will sooner beheve there are 
hidden laws of what we call spiritual Ufe, unknown to us as yet, but 
gradually unfolding, which, when comprehended, will cease to be 
supernatural. I will not insult the veracity of others by doubting 
what they tell me as facts, because these facts wear an air of mys- 
tery, when I would take their word upon all other subjects even 
where the issues of life were concerned. 

We 'know, in dreams, we seem to go forward and anticipate 
what it may take us days or years to overtake. I remember at 
one time I was conscious of dreaming constantly and most de- 
liciously, and yet could remember afterwards only some trivial or 
t 



A PLEA FOR DREAMS, APPARITION'S, &c. 19 

annoying circumstance in my dream, which was sure to transpire al- 
most immediately — as though the mind, as it removed from the 
locality of the body, remembered only what was nearest to it. In 
this way, I was often whimsically reminded of my dream by the 
cook, who, unknown to me, served up the identical article I had 

seen in my sleep. For instance — I once, said, " I saw bring 

in a lobster, I thought, last night." Now I am not particularly 
fond of lobsters, and they were but scarcely in the market. I had 
hardly finished speaking when he came in just as I had seen. 

At another time I dreamed of walking up a very long, narrow 
wharf, when a man jostled me, and went by bearing a little coffin 
under his arm. I noticed his step was long and high. The next 
day, being invited to join a saiHng-party, I walked up the identical 
wharf, and the incident I have described occurred — the man with 
the peculiar walk bearing the little coffin having jostled me pre- 
cisely as in my sleep. At another time, I saw a man with a foreign, 
Jewish style of face, pass along, who fixed his eyes strangely upon 
mine. The next morning I saw the same individual as I walked 
with a friend through the Battery, who looked at me so fixedly as 
to attract the attention of my companion. 

Now it would seem, that, as the soul went forward it encountered 
these unimportant features on its way, and these being nearest 
home, were remembered, while the images of its more distant 
excursion faded in sleep-land. In this way, it may be, arises that 
puzzled feehng which we sometimes have in regard to persons, 
events, and scenes — as though we had seen them all before — were 
acquainted with them, had lived with, them, experienced them at 
some hidden time, w^e know not how or when. Coleridge and 
Wordsworth, with other Platonists, would call it pre-existence, but, 
may it not be owing to the experience of sleep ? — we had lived it 
all before in that mysterious state when the body is wrapt in slum- 
ber, and the soul, ever active, journeys in space, and sees all that 
the body shall undergo, and anticipates its own freedom from 
the bondage of materialism. 

I remember with what delight I once in sleep hailed the idea, 



80 A PLEA FOR DREAMS, APPARITIONS, &c. 



that shadows existed in that future state of beatitude which we call 
Heaven. I thought I was there wandering through a "faire 
countrie," joyful that my pilgrimage was over, and filled with 
repose at the purity and beauty of all things about me, and the 
sweetness of companionship I enjoyed — when I saw a green 
slope with trees that leaned lightly to the breeze. Then I saw 
that shadows lay upon the side of the hill, cast from the trees, 
and I clapped my hands with delight, saying, " on earth we 
thought there could be no shadows, as there was to be no sun, only 
a diffused light." Now this turn of thought had never occurred 
to me while waking, and it is certainly one full of beauty ; for I 
fear the heaven preached from the pulpit would be a most monoto- 
nous and tiresome place. 

At another time a clerical friend had died, whom I loved and 
respected. Unfortunately, to his way of thinking, we differed upon 
religious points, which he regarded as of such momentous interest, 
that the salvation of my soul was perilled by disbelief. Shortly 
after his death, I dreamed he entered the room where I was sitting, 
looking the same, only more cheerful — a brighter, happier look. I 
knew him to be a spirit, and did not- extend any of those courtesies 
common upon meeting friends, nor was I terrified. 

I waited for him to speak. He looked at me kindly for a moment 
in silence, and then said, "I have come to tell you one thing in 
regard to the world in which I now am. I find that many opin- 
ions which I on earth regarded as all important are of no conse- 
quence there." This wears much the appearance of revelation. I 
was very young at the time, and exceedingly sensitive in regard to 
religious truth, holding the opinions of Dr. Payson — for it was he 
of whom I dreamed — as next to the oracles of God, so that any 
retraction on his part would have been the last expectation of my 
mind. He was a dogmatic and prejudiced man, though gentle to 
the young — that kind of. gentleness that is so touching from an 
austere character. 

These were dreams, but certainly of a kind, that indicate not 
prophecy exactly, though we may call it such, but a mental expe- 



A PLEA FOR DREAMS, APPARITIONS, &c. 81 

rience anterior to our corporeal. Any one, at all observant of his 
dreams, may form a nearly accurate judgment as to the condition 
of his moral sense from the character which they assume ; the spirit 
moving in a higher or lower atmosphere in sleep, just as he is him- 
self more or less subject to the senses. It is a mistaken idea that 
• dreams always have their origin from some subject connected with 
our previous thoughts. This is sometimes the case, without doubt, 
to those clogged by the external world, but to those of a more 
spirituahzed nature, sleep is, as it were, a disenthralment of the 
soul, leaving it to a joyous freedom of condition. Metaphysicians 
meet the subject of dreams as a mental matter only — as an intellec- 
tual — we mean, which is but part of the nature of man, whereas 
the intellect, sentiments, and affections, are all concerned therein, and 
if any part is quiescent, it is that which is most exhausted by the 
urgencies of life. I am willing to think that rest is essential even 
to the loftiest nature, that sabbath, which is at once peaceful and 
beatific, for even a spirit in a state of perpetual action, must 
assume something of the diabolic. Repose is associated with a 
sense of power — it has dignity, divinity in it ; whereas we instinc- 
tively give unrest to evil. 

We rarely dream of those in whom our affections are most in- 
terested, or of the subject which last engaged our thoughts upon 
going to sleep, the spirit bounding as it were from what had ex- 
hausted or impeded it, and seeking a new subject. The reasoning 
faculties, those dry bones of the mind, devoid of feeling, and need- 
less of rest, just as they are incapable of fatigue, (as all bores are,) 
will often pertinaciously continue a subject even in sleep and 
having the field all to themselves, follow out results at once clear 
and profound ; groups of the faculties combine and revel, leaving 
the sister powers to repair by rest the over-action of the world. 
The lover rarely dreams of the object of his aflfections, because his 
waking thoughts are so occupied with her that rest is required. 
The mother is disappointed that she does not dream of an absent 
or beloved child, whereas, were her aflfections less active in regard 
to him she might often dream, but as it is, sleep mercifully 



82 A PLEA FOR DREAMS, APPARITIONS, &c. 

comes to close up that avenue of thought, or insanity would be the 
result. 

So in the death of friends, those to whom we are most inti- 
mately and devotedly attached, rarely visit our dreams in the long 
paroxysm of our grief — as though the spiritual vision associated 
with them were already overdone, and we sleep in forgetfulness 
till time may have softened the sense of bereavement ; while those 
whose loss affects us less painfully, seem to hover around us for 
awhile, as if they took pleasure in continuing our companionship, 
and would do so much longer did we not yield to the feeling that 
they are lost to us. Our enemies, those who are naturally and 
instinctively antagonistic to us, I believe, judging from my own 
experience, never visit us in sleep after their death — from whence 
we may infer their sphere is entirely removed from ours in the next 
state of existence as well as in this. The reason why we are com- 
manded to pray for them must be, not in the hope of sympathy, 
but lest in our hearts while we are willing their sphere should be 
divergent from our own, we unconsciously wish it may be a worse 
one. 

Of those who eat and drink grossly, and then unblushingly tell 
of the disordered shapes that visit them in slumber, I can say 
nothing. If incubi come from overwrought nerves, and over-taxed 
sensibilities, it is an evil incident to the material, and may indicate 
that it will soon be dissolved ; but if they come from the persisted- 
in enormities of the table, or any other abuses of life, depend upon 
it, they are real shapes with which the dwarfted, impoverished, and 
degraded spirit will hereafter hold companionship, and who come 
now to hold boon revelry before you are freed from the world. 
How a human being can eat or drink twice an article that has 
played mischief with him, seems so puerile as to be incredible, did 
we not know it to be a fact. Sleep should be 

" Light and airy from pure diges ion bred, 
And temperate vapors bland," 

and the dreams of such are joyful and airy as the workings of the 
" dainty Ariel." They walk amid the stars, and behold the vistas 



opening in space, leaning on the air, moving by volition only. 
Often and often in slumber I have done this, repeating to myself, 
" how glorious it is to move, not by wings or feet, but by an effort 
of the will — to be, where to desire and enjoy are synonymous." 
Our waking experience is certainly a hard unmistakeable fact, and 
if our experience in sleep is equally coherent and far more conge- 
nial to our best nature, I know not why we should not equally 
regard it as a fact, and as a part of that true life into which a state 
of existence more accordant will present us. At any rate, I am 
willing to do so, and to pray God that I may not owe this little 
evil world any spite, considering, that though waking may not 
have been over felicitous, sleeping has been a delight. 

Not unfrequently, we not only dream, but dream we are telling 
our dream. All are more or less subject to visions that recur again 
and again, pertinaciously. De Quincy speaks of these — they seem 
to be facts in sleep -land — places or events to which we recur in 
sleep memory^ or which the spirit visits. 

I have had many of these ; the latest is that of being in a high 
marble room, with windows in deep embrasures — lofty in height, 
and abundant in tracery. The furniture I did not notice, except 
at one side there is a luxurious mat, a sofa, table, books and 
boquets. There is an air of gloomy grandeur in the room — I am 
alone — but always there is an open portal -into which the sunlight 
streams with a warm cheerful glow. Now I have seen nothing in 
life like this room, which I should recognise at once, if I ever had. 
All is foreign to me, and in my sleep, I say often, " Oh I am in 
Italy again." I have so often seen this in my visions that I fre- 
quently tell in my sleep of this dream, and then I dream that I am 
dreaming it. (The reader must pardon this tautology inseparable 
to a subject whose vocabulary is limited.) Once the operation 
became triplicate with singular clearness. I thought I had the 
dream so familiar to me, and was conscious it was a dream, for I 
said to myself, " I am dreaming that I dream of that ancient room 
again," and then, as if struck with the singularity of the thing, I 
reached still another consciousness which can hardly be seized in a 



84: A PLEA FOR DREAMS, APPARITIONS, &c. 

waking state. I thought I said softly to myself — " Hush, I am 
dreaming that I dream that old dream over again," just as if I 
feared to destroy the state into which I had fallen. I do not know 
whether this is common in sleep or not — I give the fact in the 
hope that others may be led to throw further light upon the subject. 
I never knew but one, and that was a boy of fifteen, who was con- 
scious of continued double action of the mind in sleep. It is cer- 
tain that we have an indistinct impression of vastness, magnificence, 
beauty, and infinitude, when waking from slumber, that no efibrt 
of mere volition can produce. There is a depth and breadth in 
the internal consciousness which we hardly reach in waking, and 
which fills us with subline emotions whether the result be tangible 
or not. 

In the nature of what are called Apparitions, I regret to say I 
have been less fortunate than in dreams. This may be owing to 
habits of poetic imagery, filling the life with ideal shapes, which I 
know to be such, and can by no means construe into the " ma- 
jesty of Denmark." 

Others in whose veracity I have the utmost reliance, have told 
me of experiences most singular, and I know of no reason why 
these should not be credited, and written down as a part of the 
testimony that shall go to establish a truth, or swell a denial. That 
shght communications have always existed between the Seen and 
the Unseen world, few will deny, if urged to the point ; and yet 
all will cry out sturdily and triumphantly, " I am not supersti- 
tious," as though that were any merit, one way or the other. 
Some are too dull to think at all upon the matter ; they are not 
superstitious because they are nothing — others are too weak and 
credulous to think consistently upon any subject, far less upon 
these, that require a good endowment both of reason and imagina- 
tion. Probably one cause why so much contempt is cast upon 
these things is, the poorness of the material. Ghosts are said to 
appear not with the terrific majesty of Hamlet and Banquo, or the 
terrible significancy of Caesar's " I will meet thee at Philippi," but 
too often noisy and petty in their demonstrations, leaving a just 



doubt as to the existence of any truth as to the supernatural. Still 
many of these things have been thoroughly well authenticated, as 
in the case of the Wesley family, and some others of less note. 
It is objected that their revelations throw no light upon the eternal 
world — why do not they tell something that shall confirm our faith 
in those momentous interests ? Our Saviour's reply is enough — if 
they believe neither in the authority of tradition nor reason " nei- 
ther will they be persuaded though one rose from the dead." 

If we give credence to anything beyond what Ave are able to ac- 
count for, upon the grounds of reason and experience ; or, in other 
words, the supernatural, one point is established, namely, that a 
relation does exist between this life and a some future life, and 
that is all .that is essential for us to know, for were the secrets of 
the eternal world entirely revealed to us, we should be less inter- 
ested in the subject than we now are, while it is involved in doubt 
and mystery. 

People often boast of not being superstitious. They may be the 
worse from the fact — lower in thought, and lower in the scale of 
being. Superstition is the blind element to the religious feeling, 
and however enlightened may be our views upon the great subjects 
of revelation, whoever stops short in a merely rational religion, 
lacks its best principle, that instinctive faith which springs from the 
needs of humanity. He who believes warmly in these great 
truths, is apt to cast about to see what will confirm its hidden 
mysteries. A man who reasons profoundly, and yet is unable to 
recognise a consciousness beyond and above all reason, is devoid of 
one great and beautiful element characteristic of an enlarged and 
elevated mind. 

I have observed that persons not pre-occupied with metaphysic 
subtleties, and of pureness and singleness of life, are the ones to 
receive intimations apparently denied to others. 

A PRESENTIMENT. 

A mother* told the writer, that once, while engaged in prayer, 
she was conscious of " great freedom and out-going of the spirit," 
(quoting her own words, which have a primitive and apposite 



86 A PLEA FOR DREAMS, APPARITIONS, Ac. 

beauty about them,) such as she had never known before, till she 
attempted to pray for a beloved son, who was then absent on a 
voyage at sea. When she named him, that he might be saved 
from the perils of the deep, her utterance failed her entirely — she 
attempted again and again, and each time found herself bewildered 
and expressionless. The next day she was silent, and greatly 
depressed, and told a friend, confidentially, that she was sure her 
child was dead. He was drowned that very night, having been swept 
from the shrouds in a heavy gale, 

Now here was an intimation coming neither through the reason 
nor the imagination — one unexpected and painful — a fact in the 
experience of a mind, for she told the circumstance many weeks 
before the sad intelligence of his death reached her, saying, most 
afFectingly, " I cannot pray for him, and I am sure he must be dead, 
or I should find comfort in doing so." 

I had a similar story from another mother, a courageous, 
matter-of-fact woman, of equal directness of thought and feeling 
with the foregoing, but taciturn, and far less spiritual. She lived 
on the sea-shore, and had a son on a long voyage. One night she 
was kept awake by a heavy storm, which beat against the win- 
dows — it was intensely dark, no moon nor any light in the room. 
She lay with her eyes open in the direction of the foot-board — at 
length she became conscious that she had been looking, for a 
length of time, at two small globes of light just above the frame 
of the bed. She arose, thinking they might proceed from some 
vessel in the harbor. But there was neither light nor rent — 
neither moon nor stars. She moved her hand over the place, 
thinking of glow-worms, or fire-flies— the lights did not change, 
nor did they touch the wood. For the first time she began to feel 
a mystery. " The lights," she continued, " were about as far 
apart as eyes would be ; were not glaring, but soft, and had a dis- 
tant appearance, and yet seemed close to the foot of the bed. 
When I heard my child was drowned on that voyage, I felt as if he 
had looked in, that night, in the storm, upon his poor old mother." 
She rocked herself back and forth, with a new burst of grief. 



Now it seems to me quite as philosophic, and quite as human to 
adopt the simple, true-hearted woman's solution of the mystery, 
as to cast about and refer it to an excited imagination. And 
admitting it to have been conjured by the imagination, which, by 
the way, was not powerful with her, and had not been in a state 
of excitement, why may not that faculty have its truths, which 
are as real, as much facts, as any other of the faculties ? Admit 
these are more ethereal, more intangible than others ; do we not 
admit that we are not made up altogether of materialism ? We 
raise corn and potatoes for our appetites, and roses and lilies for 
our sense of the beautiful, and one is as much a need as the other. 
Yet the gratification of the one is received through our ordinary 
and every day necessities, while the other is a luxury and dehght 
through the imagination : one is as real as the other. 

A friend dies — we feel the bereavement of the affections — see 
the dead body — our loss is a fact. Now if we have a faculty, by 
which intimations, disconnected with the body of our friend, may 
reach us, I see no reason why we should not take comfort there- 
by — I see no reason why we should not admit testimony to that 
effect — nor why we should heap contempt and abuse upon the 
faculty by which we become cognizant of that kind of truth. We 
may ourselves be deficient in it — we may have dulled, neglected 
and abused it, but why should we not give credence to those of 
clearer vision ? Did we do so in truth and simplicity, charlatans 
would not dare trifle and cajole the credulous, by attempting 
frauds of the kind, for the purposes of gain ; impiously pretending 
to sell the gifts of the Holy Ghost. 

Strange that we should need appeals in behalf of our spiritual 
existence, for if we truly believe in it, why should we not be 
ready to recognise intimations of a sympathy between that and 
the external ? All the best sentiments and affections of our nature 
demand it, and if the reason or understanding reject the faith, it is 
only because that is a part of the soul which needs it not, which 
neither hopes nor fears, nor loves nor hates, but only demonstrates. 
It is common to both gods and devils — the pure intellect — but it 



is not the soul. It is well to reason clearly — it is part of man to 
do so, but to only reason is impish. 

Reason should take the aliment craved by each of the other 
faculties, and judge of its appropriateness, but -why she should 
starve the imagination, and call it ill names, it would be difficult 
to conceive. It is as much a part of a true man, ay, and the best 
part too, as reason herself. 

I confess I am willing to employ ray reason to confirm my 
imagination. I do doubt, and yet long to beheve. I look about 
for testimony — I am ready to receive authority — instead of reply- 
ing to some thrilhng story with the impertinent, puerile, and 
conceited — "I am not superstitious," I desire to be so, in the 
best sense of the term, and only regret the meagreness of my own 
experience. Yet, that there is truth in these things, is evident 
from the universal faith in them. True, the vulgar have loaded 
them with childish and terrific images, but the subject admits the 
latter element, and the former must be imputed to the weakness 
of untutored thought. The Banshee of the Irish, the Second- 
sight of the Scotch, and the Wild Huntsman of the German, all 
point to some truth, which has become crystallized into shape. I 
may may not take these things literally, but they are voices under 
the throne, to which I am willing to listen while the throne itself 
is enveloped in mystery. 

I have regretted the meagreness of my own experience, and yet 
I once had a pretty incident of the unusual kind through a child. 
He was a healthful, lively and intelligent boy of three years old. 
One bright Sabbath-evening twilight he had been singing in my 
arms, and then sat awhile perfectly quiet ; suddenly he turned 
around and whispered in my ear, " Who is that leaning over the 
rocking chair ?'* 

" Who does it look like," I rephed, without the least appear- 
ance of surprise — for the chair was empty, and stood quite near us. 

" He looks so pleasant," was the reply, in his imperfect utter- 
ance. 

" Will you go and shake hands ?'' I asked. He disengaged 



A PLEA FOR DREAMS, APPARITIONS, (fee. 89 

himself from my arms, crossed over to the chair, and looking con- 
fidingly upwards, grasped the air, and not till he had done so two 
or three times did his countenance change, and then he whispered, 
" / tant feel him /" sighed heavily, and returned to my arms. 

The child more than once spoke of seeing objects in this way — 
was perfectly healthful, playful, and noisy as other children. I never 
showed either surprise or curiosity in the matter, never repeated 
the story in his presence, scarcely ever have talked about it in any 
way, so there was nothing to pique the marvellous in the child, 
and nothing to tempt to falsehood, by making him the hero of a 
story. The presence must have been real to him, not caused by 
disease or excitement. I turned his attention at once to other 
subjects, without making any comment. 

At another time, he crawled from his little crib, and waked me, 
saying — " The peasant (pleasant) man has tome adain," pointing 
to the back of his cradle. There was no object that could possibly 
deceive the fancy of the child. 

" Well, go to sleep, my dear," I said. He laid down tranquilly, 

and presently called out, " He is done, dear " and soon was 

fast asleep again. There was nothing extraordinary in the habits 
of the child — he was affectionate, exceedingly truthful, and knew 
nothing of fear, never had known, and was of that joyous, happy 
temperament, which many would suppose unallied to anything of 
the kind. 

The next story I shall tell was related to me many years ago, 
by a woman in the country — a pious, plain woman, who had it 
from one of her neighbors. I have since seen a similar story in 
an old newspaper of that \icinity, which must have come from the 
same source. If this taxes creduHty, I am willing to do so. The 
story is so strange, wears so much the aspect of truth, that it is 
easier to take it as a fact, than to conceive of it as an invention. 

THE ONE SIN. 

A poor widow woman lived in one of the back towns of Maine. 
Her husband left her with a small patch of ground, a one story 
house, (as it is there called,) and two or three children. The widow 



90 A PLEA FOR DREAMS, APPARITIONS, &c 

supported these children by spinning flax for the wives of the 
neighboring farmers. It may well be conceived that her means 
were limited — that the utmost frugality existed in the little house- 
hold, and that the tone of the family might have been of a sad- 
dened character likely to operate powerfully upon the nerves of a 
sensitive child. Accordingly, we find the youngest to have been 
one of those beautiful beings that come to gladden an earthly house 
for awhile, and then depart, leaving it desolate. He was remarka- 
ble for his ingenuousness, beauty, and those ideal tastes which we 
are apt to think are developed only under refined and elegant as- 
sociations. He was in fact the tenderly cared for Benjamin of the 
family, and yet with a nature so fine that indulgence did not injure 
him. 

It happened at one time that the Tsadow received a sum of money 
for her labor, one piece of which was a bright silver two shillings, 
worth twenty-five cents. Small as was the amount, every penny 
was needful in the household, and was husbanded with care. Sud- 
denly, to the surprise and grief of the mother, the bright piece 
disappeared ; and from the appearance of the child, who was too 
ingenuous to deceive adroitly, and at the same time too young, 
being only about four years of age, she suspected him to have pur- 
loined it. She questioned him closely : he turned very pale, but 
denied all knowledge. ' 

This he reiterated with so much appearance of distress, that the 
matter was allowed to drop ; but at the same time the little crea- 
ture grew pale, silent, and in a few days died. The widow was 
horror-struck — she feared her suspicions had wronged the child 
and caused his death. In the excess of her grief, she spoke openly 
of her fault to the neighbors, and was well-nigh inconsolable, for 
all know there is nothing more torturing than remorse, and no- 
thing which time so resolutely refuses to assuage. 

A few nights after its decease, as she lay weeping, the child 
seemed to stand in the centre of the room, not looking at herself, 
but as if troubled and irresolute ; at length it stooped down and 
put its little hand through an aperture or "knot-hole" in the 



A PLEA FOR DREAMS, APPARITIONS, <fec. 91 

rough boards of the floor, for the house was unfinished — the rafters 
and walls being all visible in their rough state — and the room but 
scantily furnished. When it had done this slowly, it turned to- 
ward herself and was gone. 

The next night she saw the same appearance. The third night 
she resolved to rise, and see if the child would speak to her. She 
did so ; but when she approached the spot, nothing was visible. 
She pondered the matter in her mind long and painfully, and upon 
the first appearance of light, resolved to learn all that could be 
learned in regard to this mysterious visitation. Accordingly she 
Hfted the board of the floor, and there directly under the " knot- 
hole " was the lost piece of silver. 

The poor child, ingenuous in nature, true in soul, had lied with the 
lips, while every nerve and fibre in its httle being had plead and spo- 
ken truth even to death. The contest had been too much for it, and 
that which was perishable had yielded to the strife. There is a terrible 
pathos in the incident, simple as it is. The image of the beautiful but 
fallen child, hiding its purloined treasure in this child-like manner, 
and going in secrecy and dread to gloat over it : and then, when 
death had closed the contest between its best, and weakest nature, 
thQ spirit returning penitently to hover over the place of its one 
sin, that it might cure the stricken mother of the pangs of re- 
morse. There is a consistency and beauty in the tale, a simpleness 
and truth in its texture, such as belongs to a fact, rather than an 
invention. It is one of those things we would Hke to believe. We 
are taught that the future is dependent upon the present — ^that our 
state hereafter is affected by the character we afiix to ourselves here • 
then surely there is nothing irrational in embracing whatever may 
throw light upon the subject ; and if the testimony offered be mar- 
vellous, intangible, and spiritual, let us remember that it must be 
so from the nature of things. We may ourselves receive or reject ; 
it is our right — the right of our dullness, our common-placism — or 
reason, what you will, to reject, but only a coarse mind will cast 
contempt upon that which may be beyond its reach. 

It is the fashion of our people to refer everything that is marvel- 
s' 



92 A PLEA FOR DREAMS, APPARITIONS, &c. 

lous amongst us to a foreign origin : if a writer avails himself of 
the treasures of his own imagination, or the mysterious lore ga- 
thered in childhood from the lips of nurses and simple country- 
folk — he is accused of a German taint, of borrowing from some 
transatlantic source of which he never dreamed. The writer has 
listened to tales of the wild and marvellous when a child in an old 
farm-house, more thrillingly beautiful than any recorded in books. 

Our country is peculiarly favorable for legends of the kind, espe- 
cially to those whose families are allied to the first settlers of the soil. 
These have heard the traditional tales of "Fader-land" — of the " Old 
Countrie" — intermingled with those generated from the experience 
of the first settlers, who, removed from the turmoil of civilized life, 
having intercourse with it only after protracted and perilous inter- 
vals ; surrounded by wild beasts, by merciless and treacherous sav- 
ages, and the gloom of immeasurable forests — weighed by solitude, 
isolation, and religious asperity — suffering privations, labor, and be- 
reavement, unreheved by the hope of better things in their own 
day, must have found all these combining to swell the power of 
that mystical element of the human mind, which I will not believe 
to have been idly given, or given only to deceive and degrade. 
Men thus situated must have acquired a preponderating introv-er- 
sive tendency ; in their distress and gloom they would naturally be 
led to observe presentiments and dreams, and in their bereavements 
they would seem to be brought very near to the unseen world. 
Hence we find these old families abound with legends, at once wild, 
beautiful, and touchingly significant. 

It is called superstition. Let that be the name. If we cannot 
restore the hardy faith of our ancestors — a faith evolved and 
strengthened by great and stirring times — if the need of their 
stoical virtues is lost in a more luxurious period — let us at least 
reverence the firmness with which they met the perils they en- 
countered, and that purity, not to say greatness of hfe, by which 
they stepped nearer to the spiritual in their trials, instead of doing 
as we rather do, shrink from the hidden and spiritual, and step, 
nay, plunge into the sensuous. The superstitions engendered by 



A PLEA FOR DREAMS, APPARITIONS, <fec. 93 

the early settlers, have a magnitude and solidness about them that 
refreshes the mind willing to grasp them. We feel their origin to 
have been in dark and trying times. I remember many of these ; 
one shall suffice as throwing light upon the period. 

It was when the country was thinly inhabited, the dwellings 
isolated and built of logs, that a poor young woman, who had 
been but lately left a widow, gave birth to a tine robust child. No 
one was in the house at the time but a girl, who in those primitive 
times filled the office of friend and servant, and who was dis- 
patched at midnight a distance of three miles to procure assist- 
ance, leaving the newly made mother entirely alone. The women 
of that day had so many actual perils to encounter, that they were 
not likely to suffer from the pettiness and nervousness of their 
more feeble descendants, and Mrs. L. seems to have little regarded 
the circumstance of being left alone at such an hour, and so far 
removed from human succor. 

The girl made all haste, called up the " Goodwives " of the day, 
and hurried back, leaving them to follow. As she emerged from 
the forest, and was crossing the " clearing " where the house stood, 
she encountered a stranger bearing an infant in his arms. They 
passed each other rapidly, the young woman being so full of so- 
licitude for her friend, that she gave the unusual circumstance of 
passing a stranger at any time, where the inhabitants of a whole 
district were all known to each other, and a stranger at so unusual 
an hour likewise, but little thought. 

Upon entering the cabin, Mrs. L. was found in a swooning state; 
she had fallen in such a manner as to over-lay the child, which 
was quite dead. The first words she uttered on coming to herself 
were, " I have seen my husband ; he came in and looked at the 
baby : I sprang to speak to him, but he was gone." Then the girl 
remembered the apparition she had seen. 

Here was an operation upon the minds of two. In the case of 
the bereaved wife, we may suppose her thoughts would naturally 
and vividly revert to the father of her child at such a time, and 
we may admit that her imagination would be not unlikely to pro- 




diice the semblance of her late companion ; but in the case of the 
girl this concession would have no weight, as she was not occupied 
with that current of thought in the least. The story presents a 
striking picture of the sufferings and isolation of the earlier settlers 
of the country. 

I remember when a child a servant girl at my mother's used to 
■wear a string of large gold beads, an ornament still to be found 
about the necks of women in the back towns of Maine. These 
beads were often the subject of comment with us children, from 
their peculiar hue, being leaden rather than golden. I strenuously 
insisted they had never been gold — only a wash. I was checked 
in this assertion in a mysterious manner several times, at the same 
time assured that the jewellers had tested them, and pronounced 
them gold, notwithstanding their singular color. 

At length the girl took me one side and told the secret of the 
beads. Her mother had died many years before, when Sarah was 
quite a child, who by the way was a dull, plain girl, taciturn and 
grave, and totally unimaginative ; a kind of character which I, at 
that time, could not in the least comprehend. Ignorant, as chil- 
dren are, of constitutional differences of character, I supposed the 
stolid dullness of Sarah must be occasioned by what to Mrs. Chick's 
mind caused the death of poor Mrs. Dombey, " she did not make 
an effort." / 

Just previous to the death of the good woman she took these 
beads from her own and tied them around the neck of Sarah, 
saying at the same time in the most emphatic manner, " I hope 
these beads will turn white, if a mother-in-law ever lays the weight 
of her finger upon them, to take them away from my child." 

At length the poor woman died, leaving her husband to another 
wife, as she had anticipated. The new mother was a stirring and 
harsh-tempered woman, not a little of a vixen, as the first wife 
might have been, judging from the speech we have- recorded, and 
from demonstrations made when "out of the body," as we shall 
show, anon. 

Great chanjres were made in the household — the children were 



A PLEA FOR DREAMS, APPARITIONS, &c. 95 

removed to less commodious rooms than those they had occupied 
in the life-time of their mother. The youngest, a child of two 
years, was put away to sleep by itself, in an upper and dark, cold 
room, where it often cried long and bitterly. The older children 
were frowned into silence, and the father, who seems to have been 
rather imbecile, never had courage to interfere. All the best arti- 
cles that had once been the property of the late wife, and should 
have been sacred to her children, were appropriated by the 
coarse-minded w^oman to her own use, and finally the beads were 
taken from Sarah's neck, and were made to grace the throat of the 
imperious step-mother. " And then their hue was changed, as I 
could see with my own eyes," continued the girl. 

These details were given me with a flood of tears ; but the most 
remarkable was yet to come. The neighbors began to remonstrate, 
especially in regard to the baby, who was known to sufifer from 
cold and neglect of various kinds, but this interference was to little 
purpose, as the haughty woman was much feared. 

Now the house was an old fashioned building, with a heavy 
staircase through the centre of a hall, into which the principal 
apartments opened upon each side. One night the child cried 
loudly from cold and terror, when the step-mother hurried from 
the room to still it, followed by Sarah. In traversing the hall, as 
she was about to put her foot upon the first stair, she stopped sud- 
denly, uttered a loud scream, and pressed her hand to her cheek. 
She presently recovered herself, and said bitterly to Sarah, " your 
mother has just struck me in the face." From that time a red 
spot existed upon that side, which no one had be/ore seen. The 
child did not cry any more, but w^hen questioned said, " my dead 
ma'ma came and tucked me up and sang to me." 

It repeated the same story often, and when put to bed would 
say, " Now my dead ma'ma will come." In the meanwhile a new 
child was added to the family, and now the turbulent selfishness 
of the step-mother rendered their home so uncomfortable that the 
first children were " put out " amongst their relations and friends, 
to live as best they might. Sarah, at the time she served in our 



96 A PLEA FOR DREAMS, APPARITIONS, <fec. 

family, was probably something over thirty, a poor disheartened 
being, who told wliat I have related as a part of the painful ex- 
perience of her childhood, which she revived with reluctance. 

I have made use of the story elsewhere, with some changes for 
the sake of poetic beauty, and the critics have said I borrowed it 
from the German. Legends of the sort are innumerable, all hav- 
ing their origin in that instinctive repugnance to second marriages, 
so rife amongst our people ; a repugnance to be accounted for on 
the grounds of sentiment alone — for facts and philosophy are 
both opposed to it. A bride, it is said, was about to lay her head 
upon her pillow, when she saw the faint outline of one there 
before her. She moved back — nothing was visible — upon ap- 
proaching the bed again, the same appearance chilled her with 
terror, for she saw distinctly the features of her predecessor, who 
waved her away. 

We can imagine that in a primitive and straitened society, a 
sentiment opposed to second marriages, amounting even to super- 
stition, might exist — in California, for instance, where the gentler sex 
are " like angel visits," a community would hardly tolerate a mo- 
nopoly of more than one ; and the feeling to which we have re- 
ferred, may have arisen in part from this cause, but more through 
a sense of inflicted injury, somewhere ; the husband has been cruel, 
the wife ill-used, and a spiritual visitation ensues. " Could not 
rest in my grave under such a wrong, ^"^ is a common expression. 

The writer has thus thrown herself into the midst of Dreams 
and Phantoms, impalpable shapes and airy nothings. Her ma- 
terial might be greatly extended, but perhaps her devotion to Truth 
will be sufficiently shown by what is written, and in her willing- 
ness to ally herself with a subject from which almost all shrink, as 
one stigmatized with contempt, and met with scorn and ridicule. 
It is certainly popular, for, from the most cultivated to the most 
illiterate, a " ghost story " at once arrests the attention, and com- 
mands interest, if it does not respect. 

It will be seen that the writer avows some faith ; all that she 
can she is willing to award the subject — to her the Unseen World 



A PLEA FOR DREAMS, APPARITIONS, <fec. 9*7 

seems far more the true world — the real world — than the Seen ; 
for take our hfe at its lowest estimate, the needs that belong to the 
spiritual part of us, the thoughts and emotions that make up our 
being, are far more urgent, more real and unescapable, than any- 
thing that belongs to us as material existences. Joy and sorrow 
each make us forget the claims of hunger ; heat and cold are for- 
gotten in the intensity of thought or emotion — physical pain is a 
reliefs a comfort, in mental agony — " what shall we eat, and what 
shall we drink," absorbs comparatively little of our attention, while 
the needs of a being capable of thought, of aspiration, of pro- 
gress, all mental in their significance, are infinite. 

This being the case, I long to see what gleams of light are let 
into the material dweUing ; gleams from spiritual essences, coming 
from other, and more etherealized states of being, to assure and 
recognise the Tenant within. While the material, which passes 
away, has been so abundantly cared for, I desire to see how much 
light and solace is vouchsafed to that other more urgent and spirit- 
ual life. I am unwilHng to reject the poorest atom of truth — but 
am ready to ask for more. It is time that men learned to meet 
these things fairly — giving them the weight to which they are en- 
titled, separating the wheat from the chaff. That much of crude 
imagery, of terror, and coarse if not foolish error, is mixed with 
the truth, all will admit ; and it must be so till some clear, pure 
mind is wilHng to reduce the subject to shape, and give it the 
benefit of the hght ; for now it lurks in stealthy places, amid dark- 
ness and dread, paleness and the whisperings of guilt. Surely if 
there is a side thus dark and distorted, conjured by a guilty con" 
science, there must exist its counterpart of light, and beauty, and 
love ; if Demons, slinking and g7'im, may C7'oss the path, Angels, 
likewise, fair and fearless, may walk the earth. Why not look into 
these things openly and bravely ? why leave them to the glowing- 
imaginations, as they are called, of the few, and the fears of the 
many, when it may be they have an every-day significance and 
bearing upon the experience of us all, only we will not come to 
the light to learn the revelation. 

Brooklyn, L. L 



98 RELICS. 



LOVE AND DEATH. 



BY AUGUSTINE DUGANNE. 



0, HEART ! tliat hopes, believes, and loves all things — 

soul ! which knows not that itself exists ! 
Would that the soul were plumed with the heart's wings, 

To bear it from the world's enshrouding mists. 
Methinks that Love is the true vision of man. 

By which he seeth no longer " thro' a glass 

Darkly, but face to face." Haply we pass 
In death through loving change — whereby the ban 
Shall seem a blessing, and the veil of earth 

Fall from us, like the scales from blinded Paul, 
When that his soul awoke in its new birth. 

And he, from hating all things, loved them all ; 
So may our Soul's eyes, pierced by light above. 

Rejoice in blinding Death, which leads from Hate to Love. 



A LAMENT. 90 



A LAMENT. 



BY MRS. HARRINGTON. 



June in her glowing arms at length enfolds the raptured Earth, 
And Nature hails the promise clasp with beauty and with mirth, 
Upspringing to the fervid sun the blushing Queen of Flowers 
With lavish richness pours her breath upon the fleeting hours. 
Mild, in the East, the maiden moon, with her attendant star, 
Slow lifts her silver disk and spreads her mellow light afar. 
The birds their joyous welcome all the cheerful day prolong. 
And Life awakes, with bounding pulse, to lovehness and song. 
But ah, through all and over all, a wailing strain I hear ; 
It tells a mournful history — it brings the sigh, — the tear ! 
It is the echo of the requiem my soul incessant sings. 
For her whose harp, though tuned on earth, was strung with 

heavenly strings ; 
For her, who fondly thought to see the glory and the bloom, 
But sleepeth now the last deep sleep within the silent tomb ! 

Alas, the stricken heart ! 'tis vain ! with words my spirit wars. 
And shrinks to blend them with my thoughts — vain breath, in 

such a cause ! — 
Words that at best are soulless things ; that with their coldness, 

shame 
The glowing heart that day by day burns with immortal flame. 
To say " She 's gone ;'' to calm inquiries, give as calm replies ; 
And yield assent that Faith beholds her spirit in the skies ! — 
Yet, bhssful thought that it is thus ; and we can talk and smile, 
And bear within, far down, a deep that's fathomless the while ! 

Oh, joyous childhood's sunny heart life never can restore ! 
The trust of youth, deceived, perchance, and chilled for evermore ! 



100 A LAMENT. 



Elysian dreams and blasted hopes, — the rapture — the despair — 
The stricken Sire — Death's pallid form, — all, all are buried there ! 
And when, at times, the tempest comes, unheard by mortal ears, 
And heaves and tosses in its arms the gathered load of years. 
The quivering lip and frame are naught but surface- waves, to tell 
The wild commotion, that must wait Faith's cloudless sun, to quell. 

This blooming June, — thy natal month ! and this — thy natal 

day ! 
A tribute, other than the world's, a sister's love would pay. 
The world has set her signet seal of Fame upon thy brow ; 
But other thoughts, of other worth, are swelling in me now. 
For grace was thine, that memory loves more fondly to prolong, 
Than all thy lauded genius and the beauty of thy song. 
Such was thy life's unworldliness, thy child-like purity, 
Thy worship of the beautiful, the noble, and the free ! 
Thy generous heart — thy constant truth — thy scorn of all things 

mean ; 
Thy nature all so finely strung, so delicate and keen ; 
These were the charms, whose magic bound unnumbered hearts to 

thee. 
And made thee tread earth's rugged path, ofttimes, so wearily ! 
But thou hast thrown the burden by ; the toil — ^the sorrow 's o'er. 
The wrestle for the spirit-life shall never task thee more. 
No more shall here, in love's unrest, thy yearning nature rove ; 
For now thou dwell'st in Paradise, and Paradise is Love ! 



OUR "PEARL." 101 



OUR "PEARL." 



BY MART L. SEWARD. 



Inwoven with the tissue of my life, 
The sombre tissue of my life half worD, 

There is a line of lovely light, a thread 
Of gleaming silver, of the sunbeam born. 

It is the thought of thee, oh, fairest child ! 

Our living gem, our pearl of beauty rare ! 
"Whose glow of purity, and love, and hght, 

With naught of earthly treasure we compare. 

It is thy presence in our daily path ; 

The clear, full, blissful vision of thy face ; 
The low sweet murmuring of thy childish lore ; 

The ghmpse through thee we have of angels' grace. 

There are no words to phrase my love for thee ; 

'T would task angelic utterance to impart 
The tender, fervent, spiritual joy, 

With which thine image fills my chastened heart. 

Perchance, I may not tarry with thee long — 

And it is well, for ah, my weary feet, 
Too oft in devious paths have turned aside, 

To be for thy young steps the guidance meet. 

And I would have thee know one only way, 
That upward way, so few have ever gained ; 

And see thee with thy " Cross " uplifted high, 
And with thy white baptismal robes unstained. 



102 OUR "PEARL." 



Therefore, one only prayer for thee I breathe ; 

Nor fear but He will answer it above ; 
One only prayer, — that owning thee in youth 

He will forever shield thee with His love. 

All I can know and feel of human love. 

Blends in that prayer intense, by day and night ; 

Thou art our jewel here, our radiant pearl ; 
Be then His star in yonder world of light. 



THOUGHTS AND SUGGESTIONS. 



BY THE AUTHOR OF 



SUCCESS AND FAILURE. 



Dampier, who acquired a very diversified experience of life, 
having undergone many of its most trying vicissitudes, and profited 
by the teachings they brought, adding always to the stores of his 
philosophical mind, remarked at last, when he had become old, 
poor, and neglected, that the world judged everything by success. 
It is success that hallows all things, because it is considered a fair 
test of tact, address, and good judgment, without reference to ab- 
stract merit, which, individually, is commonly deficient in practical 
qualities, and if clogged by vanity, it too frequently entails upon 
its possessor, through feebleness and irresolution, the disaster of 
defeat. What the world is able to judge of (adroitness and the 
attributes of common sense) it has nothing to show, whilst what it 
requires in reality, it may possess largely. Hence, says Laman 
Blanchard, " The world is too busy to take note of anything but 
success." It comprehends the question of results, but not the 
question of means ; and finds it more to its interests as well as to 
its convenience, to decide that people won't c?o, than that things 
can't be done. Men must rarely expect to get credit for endeavors 
unless they succeed in them. Their ardor, their resolution, their 
toils, their watchings, their life-wasting, soul-wearying exertions, 
only serve to attract attention to their failure, if in failure they end. 
They command no sympathy, no reward for themselves ; nobody 
stops to admire the merits of the losing side, or to applaud the 
quahties that have been inadequate, excellent as they were in their 
nature, and admirable in their display. Enough, if the cause in 

9* 



104 THOUGHTS AND SUGGESTIONS. 

which they were exerted is unrewarded by fortune, and uncrowned 
by a triumph. The virtue that is not victorious is unnoticed, the 
heroism of defeat is unmarked. 

EXPERIENCE. 

Experience has its true shadows, and its shadowy truths. Fer- 
vid conceptions of inspiration glimmer through its substantial real- 
ities. Let us not epitomize and simphfy too much, for in the 
world's copious and varied experience, there is a more profound 
depth of meaning than is embodied in those staid but superficial 
maxims, " Hold on !" " Hold fast !" although these are great facts, 
since the impossible is still coveted, and the attainable is with diffi- 
culty attained and kept. Hence, reproaches and discontent come 
from within and from without, and sting severely. But pleasant is 
that experience which no self-love, however ardent, can warp or 
debase ; which this world is powerless to embitter and corrupt ; 
and which is invigorated by generous influences, and warmed by 
enlivening sympathies and humanizing associations. 

Wretched and miserable is he whose refined and exalted instincts 
are all lopped ofif or razed down. For we may wrestle with life as 
we may, (and years swiftly fly,) yet all just and veritable self- 
knowledge only confirms this truth, that culture of mind and se- 
renity of soul are above all things most estimable and beneficial, 
and are the best defences against shallow principles and irrational 
judgment. 

If our intuitions be of the better and clearer kind, we can af- 
ford to abandon to others the delusions which are idle, and the 
conclusions which are false. 

USE OF OPPORTUNITIES. 

If there is any individual peculiarity or characteristic endowment 
which more than any other leads to success in the world, it is 
quickness and promptitude, not only to perceive an opportunity, 
but to seize upon it, and turn it to account, without delay, taking, 
thereby, timely advantage of the indolence, ineflSciency, and imper- 
ception of others. 



THOUGHTS AND SUGGESTIONS. 105 

History records some distinguished examples of the successful 
results of this kind of perspicacity, energy, and practical wit. 

Henry VH., in the commencement of his reign, employed Car- 
dinal Woolsey in a diplomatic mission of great importance to the 
Court of Holland. One or two essential particulars, however, had 
been omitted in the instructions which had been given, and a mes- 
senger w^as despatched in haste to correct the oversight. 

He met Woolsey on his returning journey, and was informed by 
him of the issue of his enterprise, and that the points overlooked 
had been fully anticipated and attended to by him. This readiness 
of action and vigilant sagacity ensured the rapid promotion and 
brilliant fortune of the future minister and cardinal. 

EXTERNAL LIFE. 

External life is most completely developed in the world, and it 
embraces greater or lesser aims according to the peculiar circum- 
stances in which we are placed, or our concern with the interests 
and pleasures, or with the exciting tumults and farciful displays of 
mere outw^ard and physical being which engross so much time, and 
dissipate not only the sands but the gold of life. 

We carry into mature years the gauds and games, only on a 
larger scale, of early youth. For the aggrandized toys of children, 
their armaments, horses, houses, and puerile baubles, characterize 
the subsequent occupations and ambitious aspirations of the man, 
as much as infantile puppets and effeminate ornaments do those of 
the future woman, and the cheap things which we covet when 
young, create incipient desires for their more costly representatives 
when we are old. 

Calculations have been made to show how much time and means 
are consumed in our toilet, our table, and many other incidental 
and daily gratifications. 

Startling as the estimates are, if we were to carry out the whole 
account, including our necessities, the distracting vagaries and 
frivolities, and the monopolizing demands generally of exterior life, 
when we are striving for some nonentity rather than for any sohd 



106 THOUGHTS AND SUGGESTION'S. 

and rational good, the results would amaze us, and show us how it 
is that our lives are so often frittered away and rendered wholly 
useless and worthless. 

ROSES AND SUB-ROSA. 

Sir Thomas Brown, quoting the ancient mythology, says that 
the rose was sacred to Venus, and was dedicated to the God of 
Silence, by Jupiter, in order that secrecy in love should be in- 
violable. 

The Japanese have a word in very common use, " nayboen," 
"secretly," which signifies precisely what is meant by suh-rosa. 
In regard to roses, however, they were all said to have been origin- 
ally white, but Cupid, while engaged in a dance, accidentally 
spilled the nectar on the white rose, which was thereby changed 
into a red one. 

AFFECTION BETWEEN YOUTH AND AGE. 

Love, in the mythological sense, is typified under the form of a 
child, and this is so true to nature, that it has been and ever will 
be sanctioned by the experience and judgment of mankind. In 
the pictures of Belisarius supporting upon his shoulders the dead 
body of his youthful guide, who has sacrificed his life in the pain- 
ful service of asking alms for his poor and aged protector, how 
strikingly beautiful is the representation of the afifections in their 
warmth and purity ! 

The infirmities of age touch a young and tender heart. Joy, 
consolation, sympathy, devotion, all spring out of suflfering, while 
age still clings to youth as the dearest of all memories, and the 
closest of all ties, when all other kinds of love and trust have per- 
ished in the care-worn heart. 

OFFENCES. 

The just cause of offence in some, is ever the cause of unjust 
offences to others. For injustice creates injustice, and want of 
kindness makes us merciless and cruel. 

Mecsenas counselled Augustus never to be concerned at what 
was spoken of him. If true, it is rather our business to reform 



THOUGHTS AND SUGGESTIONS. 



lOY 



ourselves, than for others to hold their tongues. If false, as soon 
as we show a concern at it, we make it suspected for truth. Con- 
tempt of such discourses discredits them, and takes away the 
pleasure from those that raise them. If such speeches are resented 
more than they deserve, the most contemptible enemy, the most 
pitiful envier, is able to disturb the repose of life ; and the greatest 
power is no security against vexation. 

" 111 shapes that man his course, who makes his wrong 
Of other's worth." 



A DOUBLE CAUSE OF SELF-REPROACH. 

We condemn ourselves more when the reproaches of others are 
the first to awake the accusing monitor in our bosoms, for what we 
have wrongly done. For then we endure a double share of morti- 
fication, arising from the errors which we have committed, and 
from a want of penetration in not having been the first to perceive 
them. We may also, perhaps, have erred still more in not being 
able to cover a defeated project with the consciousness of a good 
cause, and the support of upright intentions. 

THE VALUE OF LIFE. 

When we have learned the true value of life, we should lose no 
time in rendering it valuable. We waste many, nay, the best of 
our years in arriving at this conviction, but when we come to know, 
and feel, and act upon it, we discover that we are taxed and bur- 
thened to the extent of our powers, and that every moment of 
time is balanced perhaps against millions of years of eternity. 



108 THE PRISONER OF PEROTE. 



THE PRISONER OF PEROTE.* 

BY ESTELLE ANNA LEWIS. 

In the Prison of Perote 

Silently the warrior sate, 

With his eye bent sadly downward, 

Like one stricken sore by Fate ; 

Broken visions of his glory 

Quick before his spirit passed, 

Like clouds athwart the summer Heaven 

Hurtled by the blast. 
The sullen booming of the cannon, 
And the clash of blade and spear — 
" Death — death unto the Tyrant f" 
Still were rinojino^ in his ear. 
Much he sorrowed for the people, 
For whose weal he fain would die — 
On the tablets of the future 

Sadly fell his eye ; 
There he saw his weeping country 
Close beleaguered by the foe, 
Saw her chained and faint and bleeding. 

Heard her shrieks of wo ; 



* The only person that shared the captivity of Santa Anna, in the cold and gloomy Prison 
of Perote,. was his young and beautiful wife, who, by a thousand little acts of kindness 
and affection, soothed his sorrows, and rendered less irksome the horrors of his prison-house. 

The troops of parasites who had fattened upon his bounty, and been loud in their 
" Vivas " to his honor in the noon and tide of his power, forgot their benefactor in the 
night of his adversity, and cried ''death to the Tyrant!" but the affectionate wife clung 
closer to his bosom, the more the darkness gathered around him, and, by her presence and 
her smiles, lit up the gloom of his dreary &hoAe. — Tranalated from a Spanish Paper. 



THE PRISONER OF PEROTE. 109 

From the eastward and the westward 
He beheld the Pilgrims come 
To muse upon her wild ruins, 

As now they flock to Rome : 
Then in thought afar he wandered 
Unto Andalusia's* shore, 
To the cities of Abdallah, 
And the valiant Campeadore ; 
To the dark land of the Paynim, 
Mecca's consecrated shrine. 
To Palmyra of the desert — 

And to Palestine ; 
Well he weighed the fate of nations. 
Well their glory and their shame, 
Well the fleetness of all power. 
Well the emptiness of fame ; 
Well the w^asting wrecks of empires, 
Choking Time's impatient stream, 
Till Beauty with her gentle whispers 

Woke him from his dream. 

"Arouse thee, gallant soldier !" 
In a heavenly voice she cried, 
" Though forsaken by all others 
I am hovering by thy side ; 
Though thine own heroic valor 
Turned against thy breast the dart. 
As the feather of the Eagle 
Guides the arrow to his heart : 
Though the tempest wildly rages ; 
Though the sky is dread and dark, 
Steadfast keep thine eye on Heaven, 

And God will guide thy barque. 

* The name of Andalusia was applied by the Arabs, not only to the Province so called, 
but to the whole Peninsula. 



110 THE PRISONER OF PEROTE. 

Sorrow not ! Attendant Angels 
Thee to Fate will ne'er resign, 
Soon the storm will all pass over, 

Soon the sun will shine. 
Sorrow not ! the proud and lofty, 
Sun and sky I've left for thee — 
The very dungeon in thy presence 

Is a throne to me. 
Every gleam of thy affection, 
Every glance of thy dark eyes. 
Deep into my aching bosom 

Pours a Paradise ; 
And forever, as the flower. 
Far away from Pleasure's sight, 
Close beside some stately Ruin, 

Sheds its holy light ; 
As the faithful woodbine twineth 
Still around the mouldering tree. 
So. to cheer thy desolation, 

Will I cling to thee.'* 




CATTLE IN SUMMER. 



BY M. E. HEW ITT. 



Here, panting with the noontide's ardent rays, 

Oh patient cattle, with your dreamy eyes ; 
Ye l-nd one backward to old heathen days, 

The Pau-an altar and the sacrifice — 
The milk-white oxen, with their heavy feet, 

Drao;ging the car-throned priestess to the field; 
The sportive daring of the bold Athlete, 

The olive-chaplet and the brazen shield — 
Or haply, when adored with sacred rite 

Thou wert thyself an old-world Deity, 
Egyptian Apis ! And the Israelite 

Ilis God forsaking, suppliant bowed to thee. 
Now, yoked to toil beneath the goad and frown. 
Ye share the doom of man — Life's up and down. 

Ill 



112 TO A PICTURE. 



TO A PICTURE. 



BY B. S. CHILTON. 



A SAD and lovely face, with upturned eyes, 
Tearless, yet full of grief. — How heavenly fair, 
How sainthke is the look those features wear I 
Such sorrow is more lovely in its guise 
Than joy itself — for underneath it lies 
A calmness that betokens strength to bear 
Earth's petty grievances — its toil and care : — 
A spirit that can look through clouded skies, 
And see the blue beyond. — Type of that grace 
That ht Her holy features, from whose womb 
Issued the blest Redeemer of our race — 
How little dost thou speak of earthly gloom ! 
As httle as the unblemished Queen of Night, 
When envious clouds shut out her silver light. 



"THE BEAUTIFUL IS VANISHED AND RETURNS NOT." 113 



"THE BEAUTIFUL IS VANISHED AND RETURNS NOT." 

BY C. D. STUART. 

The wild flowers climb upon my lattice still, 

The honeysuckles and blue violets, 
And morning glories — and their odors fill 

The zephyr-dimpled breeze that softly frets 
The wanton air, until intoxicate. 

It pauses tremblingly and faint, 

Nor bears my broken-heart's low 'plaint, 
But yesterday a thing with every joy elate ! 

Alas ! my love lies stricken, like a bird 

V^hich bathed in sunshine its upsoaring plume. 
Whose song's sweet echo from the sky was heard, 

Whose wings were laden with a rich perfume, 
Till sudden storm came o'er its upward flight 

And stilled the melody that rung 

From its untainted lips, and flung 
The thing of beauty to the gloom of starless night. 

What care I for the climbing of the flowers ? 

E'en the stars' smile is not a light to me ; 
My love lies buried with the vanished hours, 

I am a slave to pain and grief — but she 
Waves her bright pinions in unfolding day. 

And leaves me bound ! O, beauty is too frail — 

It is a fragile flower — a smile — a tale 

Told in a dreamer's ear, to lure his heart away; 
10 



114 "THE BEAUTIFUL IS VANISHED AND RETURNS NOT.** 

My love is gone ! She slept, alas ! and woke — 

But not to me ! To other smiles and skies 
Her gentle slumber like a day-beam broke, 

And heaven, not earth, was on her lustrous eyes ! 
A sound that quivered fiom an o'ertasked string — 

A cadence dying on the tone it won — 

Not lost, not swallowed up — but gone 
To swell the beautiful, a bright and beauteous thing. 

Mourn with me, mourn ! your grief should be with mine, 

Our joy has perished when the fair has flown ; 
Our tears should mingle at the common shrine, 

She yet was yours, though wed to me alone ! 
The beautiful, who loves it not ? who keeps 

His sorrow mantled o'er the ravished gem — 

The rose — the lily broken on its stem ? 
Nor mutually kneels with me, my broken-heart — and weeps 

0, mourn ! the wind will bear our blended sighs, 
She cannot mock us who was free of guile ; 

0, mourn ! our sorrow shall ascend the skies 
And bring the halo of her parting smile ! 

Ye odors, fly upon your swiftest wing — 

Bear up the burthen of a broken-heart, / 

Her grave 's my goal — I cannot turn, nor part. 

Till death a joyous summons to herself shall bring ! 



THE ROSE-TREE. 115 



THE ROSE-TREE. 

FROM THE GERMAlSr OF STARKE. 

BY MISS E. FANNY HAWORTH. 

It was the afternoon of the shortest day in the year, when the 
gentle and learned Waston, Professor of Philosophy at the Uni- 
versity, had stood two whole hours at his window unoccupied and 
restless. Occupied he certainly appeared to be, for there lay before 
him a quantity of notes and memoranda, of which he read but 
httle ; it seemed as if the habit only of being busy had made him 
bring them out, that he might not appear to himself to be idle — 
for, in fact, he was so, and from the same cause that made him 
sometimes forget even his own lessons of Philosophy. 

Another philosophy, even love, the philosophy of the heart, 
divided with the first, his whole being. Yet both ruled in har- 
mony, and if it so chanced that any differences arose as to his ser- 
vices, and if the livelier, warmer philosophy of the heart became 
too encroaching, then the calm and quiet philosophy of the mind 
gave up the point readily for the sake of peace. Therefore was it 
that Waston stood full two hours watching at his window for his 
pretty neighbor Amelia, whom he knew was going out to a part\ 
with her mother, and all that time he had not once thought of his 
philosophy. 

At last, the next door-bell rang — he hastily took up a newspaper 
over which his eyes strayed across the street, and saw that Amelia 
looked from far off towards his window, and when she came oppo- 
site, she curtsied before her mother did, very friendly and grace- 
fully. 

She had often done so before in passing, but Waston had never 
thought her so beautiful, so enchanting, as to-day. Her large 
dark eyes had never shown so sweetly, and the bloom of youth 



116 THE ROSE-TREE. 



and innocence had never colored her cheek and lip so freshly, and 
her long hair had never seemed of such a beautiful brown as now, 
contrasted with the white dress it floated over. Even when she 
had passed, and he had closed the window, set wide open for the 
last look, he thought not of philosophy — but of a rose-tree. 

Waston had twice, alas only twice, had the opportunity of dis- 
covering by Amelia's conversation, that the general praise of her 
understanding, and of her gentle manners, was well deserved. The 
last time he enjoyed this happiness, in the beginning of the 
autumn, the fair one had let fall in the course of their talk, how 
much she should prize a rose-tree that would flower in the house 
in winter, that she had often tried to force one in a pot, but never 
succeeded. 

Waston had taken note of this, and immediately set about the 
means of surprising his beloved one, and gratifying her wish. 
'Now every one knows that except to a professed gardener, such an 
undertaking is often a failure, and perhaps there are many among 
my readers, who, after the assiduous and careful tending of a 
flower-pot, have seen after months had passed away, only dry 
twigs, or at best a few weakly leaves. It happened not much bet- 
ter to our Waston, though he sought in various books for the cul- 
ture of rose-bushes to blossom at Christmas. Most of his plants 
remained as dry and obstinate, as if out of revenge for the force 
put upon them, they resolved never to bloom again. Two had 
exhausted all their strength in leaves, and only one more tractable 
nursling boasted of young green shoots, and even one swelling 
bud which, if all went on well, promised to open in a fortnight. 

Then he meant to send the flower-pot to Amelia ; then he meant 
to go himself to ask pardon for that boldness ; then he meant to 
weave the first thread of the sweet tie of intercourse, and to this he 
meant to link afterwards the sweeter tie of love. 

He knew already what he should say on first going into the 
room, what he should answer to her thanks and what to say after- 
wards, and he hoped with the study of a fortnight, to be quite 
perfect in his part. If all who have a part to play, study that part, 




from the ambassador of a monarch to the medient messenger, there 
are none who so think and labor over it, with such earnestness and 
painstaking as lovers — and yet these are the oftenest forced by cir- 
cumstances to give up their well-prepared part, and extemporize as 
best they may. 

This last, Waston never thought of, he believed he had looked 
over the whole scene, and was completely master of all the essential 
parts of it. 

Thereupon he hastened, more enchanted than ever, to his rose- 
tree, which he had brought up as tenderly as only a parent can 
rear a favorite child. 

It was warmer this afternoon, and the rose-tree should, he 
thought, enjoy a little fresh air. He carried it with his own hand 
into the passage ; the yard door stood open, and that there might 
be a freer current of air, he gently opened the house door, and 
then went back into his study, pleased with the thought how his 
young nursling was thriving. Half an hour did this airing con- 
tinue, twilight came on, and Waston resolved to fetch the flower- 
pot back to his study, when he heard a sort of rustling amongst 
the leaves of the rose-tree. He burst open the door, and saw — one 
must imagine his feelings — a sheep busily devouring the beloved 
leaves. Unfortunately, there stood in a corner of the fire-place, a 
poker. To seize it and strike down the greedy animal was the 
work of an instant. " How," say you, " a philosopher and a vir- 
tuous man like Waston, so to forget himself towards a dumb ani- 
mal, which in all ignorance and innocence eats what comes in its 
way !" 

It is true Waston was a philosopher, but he was also a man, 
and that he was a kind-hearted and excellent man, his conduct but 
a few days since had shown. He had just done a noble action and 
obtained the victory over himself, generously to forgive a person 
who, from jealousy, had blackened his character and deeply injured 
him. 

In his last action, truly, philosophy had no part ; but let us im- 
agine ourselves in his place. The blow was the only means of sav- 

10* 



118 THE ROSE-TREE. 



ing the bud, and he repented of it as soon as it was struck. When 
he found it was in vain, for only as the stroke fell, did he perceive 
with dismay that the rose-bud was already eaten ; and to his still 
greater horror, at the same moment the sheep staggered and fell, 
and the sound of a clear bell rung through the house. — A bell ! — 
Alas ! alas ! Amelia kept a pet-lamb which always had a bell 
round its neck. What if the helpless animal belonged to Amelia ? 
It was indeed Amelia's lamb, and the gentle creature was killed. 
Waston's agitation was indescribable. He had only seen the sheep 
twice in his life, but he loved it better than all the sheep in the 
world put together, because it belonged to Amelia, and he would 
have received it most kindly had it come to visit him at any other 
time. Indeed, he had several times endeavored to entice it with 
bits of bread to come to him — and now it had vouchsafed to call 
of its own accord, at his open door ! — the httle bell had not sound- 
ed, or the spell-bound man had not heard it. Unfortunately, the 
sheep had met with the rose-tree — and alas ! more unfortunately 
still, it had also met with its death. Alas ! thought Waston, what 
will be the consequence ? How shall Amelia learn the truth, and 
when she hears it, what will be her displeasure against me ? What 
will she now think of me and my philosophy ? 

He was displeased with himself, with the world in general, and 
more particularly with the servant-maid, who now came in from 
the yard. " Look here !" cried he, as soon as he saw her, " here 
is a sheep killed, and nobody's fault but yours ! You are always 
letting the brutes come into the house, and how am I to know 
when I see a sheep at my rose-tree that it is not one out of the 
yard ? Now I have been so unlucky as to knock down some 
stranger's sheep, and kill it — bring me a light directly." 

Without answering, she lighted a candle, and then set it down 
exclaiming, " Oh, what a sad pity ! Now you have made a bad 
business of it for the pretty young lady next door !" It only 
wanted just such a speech to bring upon herself a new torrent of 
reproaches, deep though not loud. 

Bad enough, when a philosopher and a sheep cannot keep the 



THE ROSE-TREE. 119 



peace, but worse when the philosopher breaks the sheep's head, and 
scolds the maid for it. Her opinion was somewhat on this wise, 
when she flounced out of the house on some errand of her own. 

" Don't say a word of what has happened," he called out after 
her, " I must see first what I shall do, and consider everything." 

And he stood and considered, and then walked thoughtfully up 
and down, then with his arms folded, gazed compassionately on the 
lamb, and made one attempt after another to revive it. He exam- 
ined it — he stroked it — he shook it — he tried to make it stand up- 
right ; but it was entirely deprived of life. In his distress he 
scarcely knew what he did. Perhaps the collar, he thought was 
too tight, and he quickly loosened it. There was a clinkling sound 
of something that fell on the ground as he did so — and at his feet 
there glistened a splendid ring. " What is this ? must everything 
to-day be incomprehensible ? I lose a rose-tree, and kill a sheep, 
and find a ring ; let any one explain the connexion of all this !" 
This he said half to himself, and gazed with wonder at the ring, 
which, without being a connoisseur, he judged to be a very costly 
one. 

In the meantime the maid came back. " Only think," said she, 
with an expression of pity and wonder, as if something uncommon 
had happened ; " the pretty young lady Ameha, her maid told me 
so this moment, has lost a very valuable ring, and is quite grieved 
about it. When she went out she had it on, and when she was at 
the party she found she had lost it. So she ran home directly 
without saying a word to her mother, who she was afraid might 
be angry, and now she is seeking high and low for it, and cannot 
find it, or guess how she has lost it." The amiable Amelia must 
have been a little absent, or she would have recollected her pet 
lamb, but it never came into her head. The real fact was this : — 
the fair maiden had been rather long at her toilette. Now mothers 
are generally much quicker dressed than their daughters, and have 
a way sometimes of getting rather impatient, if kept long waiting. 
" Come, are you not ready yet, child ?" she called out at length, 
and down came Amelia with her gloves in her hand. Just as she 



120 THE ROSE-TREE. 



went by, her favorite pet lamb came to meet her — she stroked it 
and set the neck-ribbon straight. The ring came off on the ribbon, 
and by good luck had not fallen from it. Amelia had put on her 
gloves in a dusky room, which concealed the loss from herself, till 
she had afterwards discovered it, with dismay both at her own mis- 
fortune, and the displeasure she knew it would give her mother. 
That her mother would scold and fret, that was certain, for she was 
a notable woman — and notable mothers do not usually like their 
daughters to lose valuable rings. 

Waston went into his room in the most terrible agitation — 
paced several times up and down, consulting with himself what to 
do. The part he had so beautifully composed and learned, was 
completely destroyed by the deaths of the rose-tree and the pet 
lamb, and now it appeared that what he said must all be — an ex- 
temporaneous effusion. But where the heart acts, after all, it is 
better to trust to this method, than the longest and most careful 
preparation. " Why do I linger," thought he, " the dear one is 
in distress, and she must not remain so a moment longer — I must 
go to her." And he went — he " found a thing to do." A more 
embarrassed pair of young persons seldom came together. The 
maiden was in the greatest agitation about her ring, and the youth 
about the rose-tree and the pet lamb. It was a joyful surprise 
when Waston, trembling and stammering, handed Amelia the ring. 
The explanation of his finding it led naturally to the rose-tree, 
and to his love. Never had he spoken so unconnectedly, and yet 
so happily. Amelia had already known and esteemed the young 
Professor, through some of his writings which she had read, and 
his present conduct — his entreaty for her pardon — the irresistible 
expressions of his affection and his anxiety — his respect and his 
confusion — his fears and his tenderness, touched her heart so much 
that she owned to herself, that she could love one who so dearly 
loved her, who killed her pet lamb and saved her ring. 

Waston passed a happy quarter of an hour, for the fair one did 
not reproach him, and every look and every action betokened gen- 
tleness and forgiveness. She yielded him even the permission to 



THE ROSE-TREE. 121 



escort her back to the house where she was expected, and as he 
warrnly kissed her hand at parting, he fancied that a timid pressure 
of hers returned his ardor. 

The following day he must, of course, make his apologies to the 
mother too, and by the same natural course of things, his formal 
proposal for the daughter's hand followed. And these apologies, 
and this proposal, were an excuse for the happiness of passing the 
whole afternoon at the notable widow's house — and before the 
shortest day came round again, Amelia and Waston were the hap- 
piest bride and bridegroom in the whole city. 

MORAL. 

Observations are seldom read, but who does not immediately 
perceive this moral — that a pretty girl may wear costly rings and 
lose them off her finger, and a young man may cultivate a rose-tree 
and let it be eaten up by greedy animals, and a philosopher in a 
passion may seize a poker and beat a sheep's brains out with it, — 
and yet all this may not always lead to a weddino;. 



122 LEONORA THINKING OF TASSO. 



LEONORA THINKING OF TASSO. 

BY MARY E. HEWITT. 

Would I could dream of thee ! Thy thought 

Is all day long before my face ; 
But envious sleep hath ever brought 

Some shape thine image to displace. 

Yes— ronce, once only, hath the night 

Wrouglit thy bright semblance forth to rae — 

Oh ! rapturous moment of delight ! 

Would I had died, sweet dream, in thee. 

Thou, only named in thought — from this 

Ecstatic vision slumber bore, 
The morn, impatient of my bliss, 

Unclasped my soul forevermore. 

Would I could dream of thee — nor pine 
With these unanswered longings rent — 

Ah, me ! poor heart ! that love like thine 
Should seek with dreams to be content ! 

With dreams ! Yet what is hfe, alas ! 

But of the shadows that we see ? 
Visions of love and hope, that pass, 

To mock us, hke my dream of thee ! 



Ii 



MRS. OSGOOD. 123 



STANZAS. 

BY MARY. E. BEOOKS. 

" Whom the gods love, die young." 

Oh, lady, when they told me 

That thou hadst passed away, 
There was an anguish on my heart 

More than my lips can say, 
And a murmur up-rose, mournfully, 

" Oh, why, so worshipped here. 
Art called in life's first summer-light 

Into another sphere !" 

I thought upon the spirit 

So gifted, pure, and kind, 
A priceless gem, within a form 

As beautiful enshrined : 
The soul that in those dark eyes spoke, 

The sunlight on thy brow — 
Oh, lady, like some haunting dream 

They are before me now ! 

The coming of thy footstep 

Was like the sunbeam's fall, 
Bearing a brightness to each spot, 

And gladness unto all ; 
And thy light laugh, ringing merrily, 

Thy sweet harp's varied tone, 
As gushed its full wild melody — 

Oh ! such were thine alone ! 



124 MRS. OSGOOD. 



Oft in night's dreamy hours 

An echo, from the past, 
Of music, never to return, 

Upon my heart is cast ; — 
And lady — 'tis thy spirit that sweeps 

The chords of memory — 
How could they wake a sweeter strain 

Than thus to breathe of thee ? 



INCIDENTS OF LIFE. 125 



INCIDENTS OF LIFE. 

A TALE FOUNDED ON FACTS. 

BY HOX J. LEANDER STARR. 

CHAPTER I. 

" L'Esperence est la songe d'un liomme ereille." 

" EartUy things 
Are but tlie transient pageants of an hour, 
A-nd earthly pride is liie the passing flower, 
That springs to fall, and blossoms but to die, 
'Tis as the tower erected on a cloud, 
Baseless and silly as the school-boy's dream." — Kieke White. 

The Sim had just sunk below the Seven Mountains, when two 
travellers entered a small inn in the quiet and romantic little vil- 
lage which lay at the mountains' feet, deeply shaded and seques- 
tered. The ruin of the Drachenfels above was tinged with the 
glorious, but fading sunbeams. It was a calm, lovely evening in 
June, and the grandeur of the whole scene around was wild, 
striking, eloquent. Of all the beauties of the Rhine this spot 
ought to be its pride. The legend of the Isle of Nonnenworth, 
on the opposite shore, is one of commanding interest ; and time 
has strewed its mosses over the scene to ornament, not to mar its 
beauty. 

; The travellers stood for a few moments at the entrance to the 
inn, gazing at the scenery around, with that wrapt admiration 
which gives no utterance to thought ; and not until the deepening 
twihght gave note of the time thus passed, did it occur to the 
cavaher that the niojht air was too stronjr for the fair invalid who 
rested on his arm, and who drank in the full inspiration of the 
rich and lovely scene. His arm gently encircled her slender waist, 

and they entered the inn together. 

11 



12C INCIDENTS OF LIFK 



The man was rather above the middle stature, slightly, but not 
too slightly, formed ; his age seemed to be about thirty, and his 
countenance indicated a frank and affectionate character ; yet as he 
gazed now and then on the fair object at his side, an observer 
could detect that on it rested 

" The pale cast of thought." 

His general manner was marked with that self-possession and 
ease, which results from intercourse with polished society, and 
from travelling in various countries. The lady was his wife. They 
had been married but one short year, when her health rendered a 
change of scene necessary, and they had left their home at Clifton, 
near Bath ; and after visiting Paris, and Switzerland, had rested at 
Baden-Baden for a few weeks, and hngered some days at Manheim, 
and slowly were descending the Rhine into Holland — not as tour- 
ists usually travel, but stopping at every point which possessed 
more than ordinary interest, for rest and the gratification which 
leisure and refined taste dictated. This spot they had looked for- 
ward to, from description, as one which would please their " va- 
grant fancy ;" and arriving at the close of the day, they were loth 
to retire to their rooms until they had taken in some of the reality 
of the scenic beauty which surrounded them on all sides. 

But I have not yet described the fair partner of this traveller ; 
and while they are preparing for the evening meal, which their 
fussy little German hostess is getting ready for them, I will intro- 
duce her to my readers. Her age seemed to be about twenty-two ; 
her figure was not tall, nor majestic, nor imposing ; her height 
was rather below than above the middle stature ; her form was 
not fawn-like, nor sylphy, but it was well proportioned, and at t*e 
same time fully developed ; her arms were well rounded and 
graceful, and her hands and feet were of strictly aristocratic small- 
ness ; her bust was Enf/lish^ i.e. full and prominent, but not dis- 
proportionate to other parts of her figure ; her hair, of rich brown, 
waved over her cheeks in ringlets, and shaded her temples, which 
were pale, as was also her fine forehead ; while her cheeks strikingly 
contrasted with these by their warm coloring. Yet it was not the 



INCIDENTS OF LIFE. 127 



ruddy color of health ; alas, no ! that had once been her's, but 
now the insidious destroyer, consumption, had began his work of 
devastation, and had already commenced to reduce the dark deep 
shades of the red rose- tint to the paler than damask hue, and at 
times nature would assert in spasmodic throes her rights, by send- 
ing to her cheeks the driven-back current of the life-blood tinge of 
health. Her eyes were of a dark hazel, and bright and beautiful 
to gaze upon ; and her lips, of moist coral, were tempting as the 
fatal fruit plucked by a disobedient Eve. 

"Rest thee, dearest Ella, thou sadly needest repose after thy 
drive and rambles to-day. I fear our enthusiasm has made me 
imprudent in permitting you to be so fatigued, as I fear you must 
be. You remained too long standing at the door, and I fear the 
dews of twilight in thy delicate health. Rest thee on the sofa, 
sweet love, and I will sit beside thee until our kind hostess sum- 
mons us to take some refreshment, which we both need." 

" Charles, you are ever thoughtful of me, but I am so enchanted 
with this spot that I shall feel fatigue the less ; but I will remain 
quiet until supper is ready, but let me hold your hand in mine and 
talk to me : it is so sweet to hear your voice — ever so kind to your 
poor Ella. Will you not talk to me while I rest ? Tell me of this 
spot — but first I wish to whisper something to you, and pray you 
to inchne your head. There ! that kiss is an instalment of the 
dozen I owe you for all your delicate care of me to-day." 

"What," replied her delighted husband, /' shall I tell you of? 
' The Castelled Crag of Drachenfels P Well then, dearest, the 
legend runs thus : — 

♦/'The Drachenfels {i.e. Dragon's Rock) is said to be so named 
from its having been the abode of a terrible dragon, concerning 
whom many stories are told. A Christian maiden, according to 
one legend, was exposed on this rock to the fury of the monster 
by her Pagan captors, and saved from his devouring jaws by a 
crucifix she had concealed in her bosom, which so terrified the 
dragon that he plunged into an abyss, and was never more heard 
of. The most popular tradition, however, is, that Sir Siegfried the 



Horny, the famous hero of the Niebelungenlied, slew this monster 
with his celebrated sword Balamung, and delivered the fair daugh- 
ter of King Gilibaldus, whom it had carried off from her father's 
court. Sir Siegfried was rewarded with the hand of the Princess, 
but was soon afterwards treacherously slain by her three brothers, 
a catastrophe which, I trust, will explain the apparently ungallant 
termination of the following ballad. 

" The terms Linden-worm or Lind-drake, are frequently applied 
to dragons, probably from their haunts being generally under a 
linden or lime-tree, which (perhaps from the holiness in which trees 
were held by the ancient Germans) were also supposed to be fre- 
quented by dwarfs and fairies. 

SIR SIEGFRIED AND THE LINDEN-WORM. 

" Oh, there was a dragon— a dragon of might — 

Once lived in yon mountain gray; 
Liite a monster of ton, he went raking all night, 

And dozed nearly all the day: 
And there was a King, with a gallant ring 

Of nobles stout and good, 
And he had a daughter by all confess'd 

The mirror of maidenhood ! 

" The dragon he gazed from his den above, 

'Till his heart began to flame, 
And he fell over head and wings in love 

With the fair— I forget her name. 
His pulse was High and his spirits were low; 

And his appetite— strange to say ! 
So failed him, he could scarce get through 

A dozen fat sheep a day. / 

" He was sick to death of a single life, 

And he thought how sweet 'twould be, 
Instead of a fierce she-dragon to wife, 

To take a fair ladye ! 
So he canter'd down one summer night, • 

And, ceremony scorning. 
He twisted his tail round the virgin bright. 

And was off at a moment's warning ! 

" The father he foam'd for very rage : 
To his hopes 'twas sheer destruction: 
The maiden, he vow'd, was under age. 
And the deed a vile abduction ! 
And O ! have I none, my court within,' 
He cried, in his wild despair, 
' Will slay the caitiif, and win a crown 
With the hand of my daughter fair ?' 



" Then up and arose Sir Siegfried bold : 
To the dragon's rock he sped : 
What, ho ! thou traitor linden-worm, 

I am come for thy craven head !' 
One sweep of his good sword Balamung, 

And he cut the beast in" twain, 
As lightly as a skilful leech 
Would breathe a lady's vein ! 

" The monarch hath taken Sir Siegfried's hand, 

And called him his son : 
A kingdom and a bride the knight 

By a single blow hath won ! 
O ! had the doughty champion 

But a little prudence known, 
With the kingdom he had been content; 

And left the bride alone I" 

" The Rhine," added Charles, " is an emblem of the literature 
of Germany. The dark forests of the Hartz — the towers which 
ovai'hang the legendary river — the relics of ancient German power 
— the mixed and hallowed recollections of the past — the chivalry 
of the dark ages, and the association with the ideal world — the 
dim tracery of Roman and of Goth, are all here recorded. The 
flowing of the Rhine is but an emblem of the genius of romantic 
Germany. Mountain — plains — solitude, in its wildest forms — the 
tall spires of time-honored cities — castellated ruins — the grave and 
ancient monastery — the lonely peasant's cot ; all with their con- 
trasts of truth and falsehood — grandeur and homeliness — history 
and superstition succeeding each, and blending into a whole." 

A fortnight was passed by this loving couple amid the scenery 
which was so attractive to them — two weeks of bright hope and 
mournful disappointment. At first the strength of Ella seemed to 
sustain her well, and for a few days she could ride each day a few 
miles on horseback, or accompany her husband in his rambles ; but 
then her strength seemed unequal to either of these modes of 
exercise. 

A physician, who had resided long in Germany, and was held in 

high repute in the village, was privately consulted by Mr. Stanley, 

advised a different climate for the fair invahd, and recommended, 

at least, their speedy return to England, to enable Mrs. Stanley's 

case to be judged of by men of high medical skill ; and her de- 
ll* 



130 INCIDENTS OF LIFE. 



voted husband's fears were too much alarmed for him to neglect 
the precaution suggested, and he resolved to act timely upon it. 

A fortnight more found them landed at Folkestone, on the coast 
of Kent, and here they remained for several days to rest after the 
fatigue of travelling, and the weariness of the voyage across the 
channel ; which, brief as it is, is ever tiresome and disagreeable and 
wearing, from the short rough sea which the slightest wind raises, 
and makes more unbearable to travellers than even the waves of 
the broad and mighty Atlantic. 

Mr. Stanley thought it wise to write to his friend. Dr. Chambers, 
a man of high and deserved reputation in London, to come down 
to Folkestone by railroad at once and see his beautiful Ella ; and 
the more so, as his presence would inspire no alarm in her mind — 
Dr. Chambers being known to her from childhood as the intimate 
and cherished friend of her father. 



CHAPTER II. 



'Too late I stayed — forgive the crim^— 

Unlieeded flew the horns ; 
How noiseless falls the foot of Time, 

That only treads on flowers ! 

' What eye with clear account remarks 

The ebbing of his glass, 
When all the sands are diamond sparks, 

That dazzle as they pass ? 

'Ah! who to sober measurement 
Time's happy swiftness brings, 
When birds of Paradise have lent 
Their plumage for his wings?" — Hon. Wilxiam Spe>xee. 



Mr. Stanley was the only son of a rich merchant of Liverpool, 
who had acquired a large fortune by his success in the ownership 
of ships trading to New- York — the Liverpool of the new world. 

lie had spared no pains — no expense — in giving to his son a 
classical and solid education, and had trained him up in the way he 
should go. Mr. Stanley, seniol*, was not what may be recognised, 
strictly, as a pious man, but he was possessed of a deep reverence 
for religion, and respected its forms and its worthy professors. In 



his dealings in the conriniercial world he was ever high-minded and 
honorable ; and Albert Stanley's word on 'Change was as much 
revered as his bond. He was one of those fortunate merchants 
whose polar star was ever principle : and no double dealing or 
meanness ever contributed a pound to his fortune. The mother of 
Charles was a woman who blended with the most cheerful and 
lady-like manner, the deepest, the most uniform and sincere piety 
— free alike from cant and affectation — but ever frank, noble, and 
consistent. It was she who formed the mind of her son to the 
same reverence and devotion ; and as he grew up to man's estate 
he proved in all these most essential characteristics the counterpart 
of his beloved parents, possessing the unfeigned piety of the 
mother, and the high, honorable, generous feehngs of the father. 

He left College at the age of twenty-two, and then commenced 
his travels. He did not incur the hazards incident to most young 
tourists, for he was well grounded in those pure and lofty principles 
of honor and of virtue, which, while they interposed no bar to all 
rational and cheerful enjoyment, like the " pillar of fire " which 
guided the Israelites, were ever before him as the guide of his 
conduct. 

He visited France, and admired the rich and varied scenes of Le 
Beau Paris without being soiled by the contamination of its vices. 
He spent some time in Italy, and passed a winter in Florence, 
where he chose for his companions the best informed and most 
intelligent of the strangers whom he met there ; and his cheerful 
disposition and well-balanced mind, and intelhgence, made his 
acquaintance coveted by all. Germany, Holland, Switzerland were 
all visited by him ; and his mind took in all that was worthy of 
admiration in those countries. He then crossed the Atlantic, and 
spent a year in visiting various parts of North America. The 
mighty Falls of Niagara — the wild Prairies of the far West — the 
gigantic Mississippi — the quiet, and well ordered towns of New 
England — romantic Canada, with its French-looking old town of 
Quebec, all were visited by him, and he then returned to Europe, 



132 INCIDENTS OF LIFE. 



and passed some weeks with his parents at a Httle villa occupied by 
them a few miles out of Liverpool. 

Ella was the daughter of a respectable clergyman of the Church 
of England, resident at Bath. She was solidly educated in all the 
useful branches of knowledge which serve to form a high-bred 
lady. Drawing, music, painting, languages, received her marked 
attention ; and under the tutorage of good professors, she made 
great progress in each of these accomplishments ; while the native 
delicacy of her mind, like rich soil, received the seeds of pious 
instruction which it was her father's pecuhar province to confer, 
and her heart was as devout as her mind was well instructed. 

Her accomplished mind and attractive person could not but win 
for her many admirers among those sons of the neighboring gentry 
who visited her father's mansion, where hospitality was imostenta- 
tious; and free, equally from the stiffness of assumed ceremony, 
as from the vulgar familiarity which is consequent upon the unre- 
served intercourse of a less elevated class of society. Among these 
there was one person who became the declared lover of the fair 
Ella, and proposed for her hand. 

Mr. Martin was a young barrister of good family, and of ample 
means, apart from his professional income, and was withal a 
strikingly handsome man, and of polished manner and address. 

He sought an interview with Ella's father, and "stated the case" 
to him, and he was not unfavorably listened to by the Rector ; but 
he gave no encouragement until he could have an interview with 
his daughter. This occurred the next morning, when he sent for 
Ella to come to him in his library, and then communicated to her 
the proposals of young Martin, and frankly asked her feelings 
respecting him. There was no affectation in either her manner, on 
the occasion, or in her reply. She acknowledged that Mr. Martin's 
attentions had been marked and particular, but stated that she 
could never accept him for a husband. She acknowledged his 
talents and station in society as quite equal to what she could ever 
expect in an alliance ; but there was in his conversation a tone of 
levity ; a decided disregard of the solemn duties of religion ; that 



INCIDENTS OF LIFE. 133 



if he were not a " scoffer," (as she fain would hope,) his mind was, 
at least, not imbued with that profound reverence and respect for 
*' the religion of the Bible " which could win her confidence and 
her love. For, " dear papa," (as Ella remarked,) " I am soberly 
convinced that the woman who has been educated in the views 
which it has been my good fortune to have received from you and 
mamma, would make shipwreck of her happiness if married to a 
man of a wholly uncongenial mind : one who, although not a bad 
man — esteemed honorable and just in his intercourse with the 
world — cannot sympathize in that pure and undoubting faith in 
God's Holy Record, and in her ideas of the necessity of personal 
holiness as at once a duty we owe to Him, and as best conducive 
to our own earthly happiness in all respects : who would not 
accompany her to worship in the Sanctuary, (unless from courtesy,) 
nor bend the knee at His Altar in obedience to the command, 
* This do, as often as ye shall d^ it in remembrance of me * — (for 
Mr. Martin is too much inoculated with those false and dangerous 
doctrines of Socialism to be companionable as my husband, or to 
long retain, I much fear, what I believe he now possesses, and 
which is known in the world's phraseology as a good heart) — would 
be indeed not the husband whom your poor Ella could swear to 
love, honor and obey. I may be mistaken ; but I fear much misery 
to both would follow such an alliance, and marriage is too solemn 
and momentous an event to incur so fearful a hazard. I have not 
the courage to try it !" 

It need not be added how fully Mr. Norris concurred in these 
views of his beloved child. 

The world of fashion and of thoughtlessness may sneer and pro- 
nounce it cant ; but the world is filled with misery in married life, 
arising from that one single want of caution before marriage, which 
can never be remedied afterwards ! the want of a perfect con- 
geniality of taste, and thought, and views of conduct. It is the 
rock on which the countless multitude make shipwreck of domestic 
happiness — a rock so adamantine, that the tears of vain repentance 



134 INCIDENTS OF LIFK 

which have flowed from thousands have been unable to soften, but 
have only rendered the surface more transparent. 

Soon after this interview, Mr. and Mrs. Norris and their daughter 
commenced a tour through the Highlands of Scotland, and while 
resting at the little inn at the entrance of the Trosacks, they were 
joined by other travellers, among whom were the family of Mr. 
Stanley ; and it fell to young Stanley's lot, in that easy and un- 
arranged mode which people of refinement unconsciously fall into, 
to be the escort of Miss Norris over the mountains, as the whole 
party proceeded together, each mounted on one of those small, 
sure-footed Highland ponies, the only safe mode of travelHng across 
the Highlands. 



CHAPTER III. 

" When first the lark the mom adores, 
His strain is weak, his voice uneven, 
But still improving as he soars, 
He sweetest sings when nearest Heaven!'* 

" They wed, 
And they were happy— for to each other's mind 
Each seemed an angel and earth Paradise." — Bykon. 

The purely accidental meeting at the Trosacks gradually ripened 
into an acquaintance between these two worthy families, and led 
to an invitation to the Stanleys to pass a few weeks with the 
Kector's family at Bath, before they returned to their home near 
Liverpool. 

It is difficult for two young persons of opposite sexes to be much 
in each other's society, when the habits and tastes of each are 
the same, without a friendship of some sort growing up between 
them. 

In this case the heart of neither was preengaged. Mr. Charles 
Stanley had seen much of the world, and b&en in the society of 
many intellectual and refined women, and certainly, from his per- 
sonal attractions and reputed wealth, was not ungraciously received 
by them ; and had he sketched an abstract character of such a 



INCIDENTS OF LIFE. 135 



woman as he could be induced to marry, lie would have drawn the 
portraiture of more than one on his list of female acquaintances. 
But it is difficult to account for these things. He had never yet 
been in love ! The mesmeric fluid had not yet penetrated his 
heart. 

He soon felt, however, that in the society of Miss Norris he 
was more interested in his feelings towards her than he had ever 
before experienced in the society of any other ladies, and he 
became convinced that if the feeling which now gave a new pulsa- 
tion to his heart, was not love, it was at least closely .allied to 
that passion. 

A Frelich proverb on friendship says, " L'amitie est amour sans 
ailes" and this he knew could not be friendship only, and he at 
last confessed to himself that he was really in love with the beauti- 
ful Ella. And what were her feelings ? Did she discover in 
Stanley any traits of character so different from those of her late, 
discarded lover ? Her heart was not slow to whisper the same 
secret which in a woman's history is so gently revealed; Like the 
notes of the ^olian harp, the breath of morning scarce vibrates on 
the strings, and yet it is a sound, gentle — soothing — yet heard : 
anon the notes grow louder, and then courage is gi^-en to bear the 
deeper harmony. 

The parents of both were delighted to notice this growing at- 
tachment between their children ; and when the consent of Mr. 
Norris was asked, a glance at his fair daughter elicited a favorable 
reply in the slight blush and downcast eye, which soon was raised 
to meet her father's with a look of gratified intelligence and assent. 

Their marriage took place a few months after, to the great joy 
and satisfaction of all parties ; and the affection of Mr. and Mrs. 
Stanley for^their daughter-in-law was happiness to Ella, for she felt 
they were sincere in their professions of attachment to her, and 
she now looked upon them as her own parents ; for they were 
those of her beloved Charles. 

Her happiness was complete when the elder Mr. Stanley placed 
in her hands the title-deeds, drawn in her name, to a beautiful 



]36 INCIDENTS OF LIFE. 

mansion and grounds, picturesquely placed at Clifton, near her 
paternal Lome, and when he added that it was his request that she 
and Charles should in future reside there, so as to be near the 
Rectory, and that Mr. and Mrs. Stanley would consider themselves 
her guests for a month during the winter, and at mid-summer, v 

Here they resided, calm — peaceful — loved. Their life seemed 
blissful beyond the lot of the most favored mortals. For a long 
time the canker worm which had insidiously assailed the bright 
rose of health, was not perceived. The blight and the mildew 
were there — unseen ! Heaven has decreed that man's bliss on 
earth shall never be on all points perfect. It would wean him 
from his yearnings for Heaven, and he might fancy this his resting 
place — Earth a Paradise ! Amid the flowers of this our lower 
home we are reminded of decay and death. There is no " peren- 
nial bloom." 

" Like leaves on trees the race of man is found, 
Now green in youth, now withering on the ground." 

And since the days of Adam and Eve's expulsion from Eden ; since 
that day when 

" The same rash hand that pluck'd the fatal fruit 
Unbarred the gates of death," 

our brightest hopes are but a " garish flame " to light us to the 
tomb. 

Ella gave signs of ill-health, presenting fearful indications of a 
pulmonary disorder, and she was advised to travel ; — and it^is on 
this tour, undertaken with many anxious and doubting fears on 
the part of a husband who deeply — devotedly loved her — that we 
have introduced them to our readers at the opening of the first 
chapter. 



INCIDENTS OF LIFE. 



137 



CHAPTER IV. 



" Non est vivere, sed yalere, vita." 

" Fainter her slow steps fall from day to day, 

Death's hand is heavy on her darkening brow ; 
Yet doth she fondly cling to earth, and say, 

' I am content to die, but oh ! not now ! 
Not while the blossoms of the joyous spring 

Make the warm air such luxury to breathe ; 
Not while the birds such lays of gladness sing ; 

Not while bright flowers around my footsteps wreathe ; 
Spare me, great God, lift up my drooping brow 

I am content to die — but oh ! not now !' " 

Mes. Noetox's "Child of Earth." 

The visit of Doctor Chambers was sadly interesting and melan- 
choly. He felt a strong interest in the daughter of his old friend ; 
and his examination of her case was cautiously made, for he 
wished not to alarm her fears, but to advise calmly the mode of 
procedure which he might deem best calculated to restore her to 
her wonted health again. He had several consultations with her 
Folkstone physician, and in the end, before returning to fiis press- 
ing professional duties in London, he took Mr. Stanley apart and 
urged upon him to remove his young wife, as soon as her strength 
would permit her to travel, from the climate of England, and 
recommended a few months' residence in the Island of Barbadoes. 

This advice Charles acquiesced in, and he wrote to his father to 
procure a passage for them in some safe ship sailing from Liver- 
pool, and to write to his agent there to engage suitable accommo- 
dations for them on the island. 

In about a month their arrangements were all made, and they 
quitted their delightful home, taking with them a favorite maid of 
Mrs. Stanley's ; and after a week passed with his father and 
mother, near Liverpool, where they were joined by Ella's parents, 
they embarked in the ship Europa and sailed for Barbadoes. 

" 'Tis done — and shivering on the gale 
The bark unfurls her snowy sail ; 
And whistling o'er the bending mast, 
Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast." 

There were but few fellow-passengers ; and the feeble state of 
Mrs. Stanley's health prevented her from being often on deck, or 

12 



138 INCIDENTS OF LIFE. 

from making the acquaintance of those embarked on the same 
voyage with her ; — while her husband was too anxious, and too 
devoted to be much from her side. He cheered her with his 
agreeable and varied conversation, and contributed much to soften 
the dullness and ennui of a long sea-voyage. 

The weather was, for the most part, favorable, and the winds 
were propitious. One or two incidents gave a fearful interest to 
the otherwise monotony of the voyage. 

One night, after a gale which for fifteen hours had been blowing 
with more than usual violence, and the captain had deemed it 
prudent to furl all the sails, except the fore-top sail, which was 
close reefed, about midnight the captain was summoned on deck by 
the officer of the watch, in consequence of some change in the 
weather which portended mischief. He was a thorough seaman, 
although yet a very young man ; but he had been " bred on the 
seas," and was devoted to a profession which was now his darling 
passion, and he was ever cool and collected in time of danger, and 
thus had acquired an influence over his subordinate officers and 
crew which is so important to a naval commander. 

Captain Jones, on reaching the deck, took a rapid and practised 
glance at the spars and rigging aloft, and then scanned the horizon 
for a few moments in silence — looked at the barometer, and at the 
compass — and, after lighting a fresh cigar, he gave his orders with 
that quiet manner which showed he knew what he was about. 

At this moment, the gale was succeeded by a perfect tornado ; 
and the lightning glanced fiercely around, and large globules of 
meteoric fire (termed by the seamen " composites ") lingered on the 
mast-heads, and on each yard-arm, while the vessel careened so as 
to render it impossible for any, except a practised seaman, to retain 
an upright posture on deck. The sea was lashed into foam, and 
the white-crested billows rose ever and anon as high as the poop- 
deck, and then fell away again but to return, like cormorants 
eagerly in quest of living prey; and the enormous spar Avhich 
formed the fore-yard (from which the close-reefed sail had been reft 
as if it had been of thin gauze) hung by a single rope, and swayed 



INCIDENTS OF LIFK 139 

to and fro, seen at intervals in the lightning's flash like a giant's 
arm, writhing in his agony. 

Charles left the state-room of his. young wife for a few moments 
to ascend the companion-way, and enjoy a spectacle at once so 
grand and majestic, and yet so awful. 

He had scarce returned to his wife, and was describing the scene 
around them, to which she was Tistening with that perfect calmness 
which marks a well-balanced mind, and one who habitually realizes 
that her " home is in the heavens," when the awful cry was raised, 
" The ship's on fire !" Even this did not destroy the calm serenity 
of Ella's mind. She pressed her lips on her husband's forehead, 
and gave him a look so full of love and confidence, that she sus- 
tained him in an hour so trvino^ to mortal couraoje. He could not 
be induced to quit her side, although she urged him to go and 
offer his aid to the crew in such a thrilling emergency. 

In an hour the tempest had subsided to the strength of the gale 
which had preceded it, and the flames were arrested by the well- 
directed orders of Captain Jones, promptly obeyed by his crew ; 
and the fears of all were allayed. And the incense of grateful 
thanks ascended from more than one heart that night, to Him who 
rebuked the waves and bade them " be still," and with whom are 
the issues of hfe, for the preservation vouchsafed amid dangers so 
appalling. 

K week later the ship came to anchor in Carlisle Bay, the en- 
trance to, or harbor of Bridgetown, Barbadoes ; and Mr. Stanley's 
agent came on board to welcome the young couple to this fair isle 
of the Caribbean sea, and to report to them the arrangements he 
had made for their comfort. 

Mrs. Stanley had evidently improved in health during the voy- 
age. On arriving at Barbadoes she had, with the assistance of her 
maid, been able to dress and sit on deck, and enjoy the novel sight 
of tropical scenery. She received Mr. McDonald with a graceful 
smile, and listened with an interest and delight to his description 
of their new abode, which gave evidence that the hope of recovery 
was yet unsubdued. 



140 INCIDENTS OF LIFE. 



A few hours saw Mr. and Mrs. Stanley, escorted by Mr. 
McDonald, safely tenanted in the beautiful villa engaged for their 
use. It was hired for a year, by their father's agent, from the factor 
of a rich Jew, who was then travelling through Europe, and he left 
it furnished throughout ; and both house and grounds were in the 
most perfect order, in charge of ten of his trustiest slaves, whose 
sole labor consisted in keeping the grounds in order. 

It was situated at Exmouth, close to the sea shore, and near the 
principal bathing place on the island. The main building was very 
much in the style of an English country villa, with a verandah 
running the whole length of the front, which faced on the sea, 
covered in by green lattice-work, and the floor of which was formed 
of mosaic marble, for coolness and for ornament. The floors of 
the rooms were of polished wood ; and the absence of carpets and 
fire-places seemed strange to one always accustomed to their use 
in England. The drawing-room and dining-saloon were appro- 
priately, even elegantly, furnished, and the sleeping apartments 
were spacious and airy, and were provided with mosquito-nets, 
which encircled the beds, leaving not even the most minute crevice 
— these midnight marauders could only chant their war-song 
without. The servants' rooms were in small adjoining buildings, 
and the cooking was all done in a separate building, exclusively 
devoted to cuHnary purposes. 

Besides the gardens, which we shall presently describe, there 
were bath-rooms, turtle-ponds, and a small, airy-like building, 
raised on piles broadly on the sea, which was appropriated to fish- 
ing, and which protected those so occupied from the rays of a 
powerful sun. 

In fact, there was nothing wanting which could contribute to the 
comfort and ease of the tenants. The dwelling was surrounded on 
all sides by gardens, in the highest state of culture, and kept in the 
most perfect order. 

In front, at the termination of a beautiful lawn, intersected with 
gravelled walks, was a garden devoted to flowers. Jasmines in 
endless variety, among which were the night-blowing, the Cape, 



\r 



INCIDENTS OF LIFE. 141 

the African, tlie Tuscan, and the myrtle. The wild ginger, or 
cardomum, blushing gracefully with its rich profusion of waxen, 
shell-shaped flowers, — the red and white hogonia — the fuchsia, 
a beautiful hlac flower, tube-shaped, growing in rich clusters, — 
the plumbago — Ipomeas of all sorts — the flowering aloe, — the 
everlasting aloe, tall, spiky, of yellow blossoms, growing ten feet 
high — the sweet-scented olive, a most rare and beautiful tree — the 
glorioses, the spesiose, and all the varieties of the rich Eupherhias. 
The tube-rose, — the Lady-of-the-night, a small yellow flower, fra- 
grant only at night, — the Canna Indica, a bright crimson, and 
sometimes also a yellow flower — the wild night-shade, which gener- 
ally grows on hedges, and is a white, star-shaped flower, of great 
beauty. There were also the yellow species, with very poisonous 
leaves ; the wild fuchsia, a most delicate, yellow flower. The canoe 
'plant, with its green and crimson leaves ; the passion flower, and 
among them the most beautiful of all the species — the scarlet. 
But it were endless to enumerate more, for the eye is attracted at 
all points by the varied and rich hues and fanciful shapes of these 
tropical flowers of almost gorgeous lovehness. 

On either side of this beautiful mansion, were planted, and in 
full, luxuriant growth, the most exquisite flowering shrubs. 

Here was seen the scarlet cordia, with their clusters of scarlet 
blossoms ; the petw'a, with its fragrance almost overpowering — the 
white flowers of trumpet-shape, hanging in large clusters, and some 
of them of double yellow ; the portlandia, rarely seen in the plains, 
being a forest-tree of very slow-growth, and its flowers of white 
and pink ; the coroX plant, with its vermilion blossoms, shaped like 
the branch coral of the Mediterranean, and its nut of poison ; the 
p)ride of India, with its fragrant lilac flowers ; the Barhadoes pride, 
highly scented and tasting like rose-water. The flowers of this 
shrub are of every shade of scarlet and crimson, and varieties of 
golden hues, from the deep-red gold of India, to the pale virgin 
ore of California. The meringho of white and pink blossoms, and 
minnosa-like leaves, prized for the medicinal quahties of the root 
and bark ; the rock rose, like a gumcisters, of a waxen texture, 

12* 



142 INCIDENTS OF LIFE. 

with bright green leaves shining like satin ; the lignum vitce, with 
its fragrant blue flowers ; the limonia, or French lime, whose blos- 
soms resemble that of a lime, and is very odorous ; the spicy 
pimento ; the fragrant coffee, with its wreaths of white flowers like 
flakes of snow, but glistening with dew, reminding one of the 
silver thaw of the artic regions ; the lagerstibemias red lilac and 
blue hlac; the regina, the handsomest of tropical shrubs. 

Another beautifully laid out spot was devoted to the endless 
variety of ferns. ' There were placed the whole tribe of parasites : 
the II Spirito Santo — the night-blooming Ceres, only throwing out 
its perfume after sunset — " the old man's beard ;" the Archidean 
plants in great profusion ; the sensitive plant, growing to immense 
size ; the wild pine, growing to be a foot in length, composed of 
scarlet leaves ascending in a spiral form, and the inside containing 
a number of ligaments like a skein of entangled purple silk. 

A short distance off" was placed the vegetable garden, containing 
yams, kokoes, garden eggs, ochre, acche, the papaw, sugar-beans, 
mountain cabbage, and an almost endless variety of esculents, 
known only to southern climates. 

Again, at a short distance ofl", were spaces devoted to fruit trees : 
the forbidden fruit, of pale gold color, larger than an orange, with 
the mark of Eve's fingers ; the grape fruit, very similar, but of 
smaller size ; shaddocks, white and red ; pine-apples, grennadillos, 
the custard apple, sweet sops, the sour sops, china moya, the genap, 
the star apple, the avocado pear, the rose apple, the yellow and 
purple pear, the wild tamarind, the deadly cashaw, the mango, the 
guava, and a thousand other various and rich fruits, any one of 
which were tempting enough to win Eve from her high allegiance ! 

If it were possible to possess perfect happiness without the 
enjoyment of health, it had been found in this abode. 

A husband and wife in the prime of their existence, each the 
possessor of high cultivation of intellect, and with minds and affec- 
tions thoroughly trained and educated in all that is lofty and vir- 
tuous ; deeply and truly wedded to each other by that strongest 
of all earthly ties — the affection of congenial hearts — with ample 



mCIDENTS OF LIFE. 143 

fortune at command to contribute to their comfort and to their 
tastes, there was no wish which their reasonable minds might covet 
that could not be reahzed. All, all .were theirs except that health 
so desired for his beloved Ella. 

For several weeks after taking possession of their new home, 
they w'ere often seen rambling together over the grounds, and 
enjoying all the richness and the novelty of the beauties which 
surrounded them. Mr. Stanley had brought over with him an 
easy and commodious carriage, and towards the close of the day, 
when the extreme heat of the sun had passed away, they drove 
out to Worthington, or to Scotland, or Bridgetown, or visited 
other parts of this beautiful Island, every part of which is culti- 
vated, and the whole might be termed the garden of Barbadoes. 
He was seldom absent from her. The professional services of 
Dr. Dewitt, long a resident physician on the Island, were engaged 
for Ella, soon after they landed from the '*Europa;" and at his 
recommendation, a native mulatto woman was hired as a nurse ; 
and when Mr. Stanley was not at Ella's side, conversing with 
her, or reading to interest her attention, the nurse and her own 
maid were with her. 

Mr. Stanley received numerous visits soon after his arrival, 
which he returned ; but declined all the invitations so hospitably 
given him — on the plea of his wife's health. The only exception 
he made was in once or twice dining at the Pilgrimage, the official 
residence of Sir James Lyon, then Governor of the Island ; for he 
was trained to recognise an invitation of the King's Representative 
as almost tantamount to one from his Sovereign, which we know 
is always considered a command. 

Among those who called often to see them was the Rev. Presi- 
dent of Codrington College, Dr. Pindar — a refined scholar, a 
learned divine, and an accomplished gentleman. In his society, 
Mr. and Mrs. Stanley took great delight. His polished mind re- 
flected the most benign piety ; and years after, when Mr. Stanley 
met this distinguished clergyman in England, he referred to their 



144 INCIDENTS OF LIFR 

acquaintance in Barbadoes with a melancholy, but most grateful 
recollection of his untiring kindness. 

Dr. Dewitt spoke frankly to Mr. Stanley about his wife's case ; he 
found she was, alas ! too deeply gone in consumption, to afford any 
hope of ultimate recovery, and urged upon her husband to keep 
Ella's mind cheerful, and to await the decree of an inscrutable 
Providence. Dr. Pindar spoke freely, but with prudent caution, to 
Mrs. Stanley of the slender hope of recovery ; and with a sweet 
smile she gave him this reply, which her husband long after dwelt 
upon with mournful satisfaction. 

" I feel it to be so, my dear sir, but the pathway to Heaven is 
as bright and certain from this lovely Isle as from dear old Eng- 
land. I have no fears of death." 

One afternoon their drive was prolonged beyond the hour they 
expected, or than strict prudence dictated, and night had overtaken 
them before they reached Exmouth. There is no evening twilight 
in the tropics. Some poet beautifully alludes to the setting of a 
tropic sun, thus : — 

" And now my course of terror's run, 
Mine be the eve of tropic sun, 
No cold gradations quench his rays, 
No twilight dews his heart allays ; 
With disc-like battle target red. 
He rushes to his burning bed, 
Dyes the broad wave with ruddy light, 
Then sinks at once and all is night." 

/ 

Ella complained of feeling slightly chilled, and her husband was 
alarmed lest in her delicate state the night dew^s might prove hurt- 
ful to her, and he hastened his return as fast as possible without 
adding to her fiitigue. It was her last drive. 

From that day she rarely w^ent out. At times, supported on the 
arm of her husband, she ventured to take short walks in the gar- 
den, or on the pebbled, clear beach before them, for the sea flowed 
at the foot of the garden which skirted the lawn, and a small pos- 
tern opened from it directly on the beach. 

These visits, in consequence of the increasing weakness of the 
fair invalid, were soon discontinued ; and the hectic flush in her 



INCIDENTS OF LIFE. 145 



cheeks, the wasted, attenuated form, the hollow, ceaseless cough — 
all told the sad tale of early death. 

Yet how calm and resigned was this lovely sufferer ! There was 
no murmur at pain — no repining at her hard fate, so soon to be 
sundered by death from the dear object at her side, so much and 
so tenderly loved. All her thoughts seemed now of regret for the 
grief she was about to inflict on her husband and her parents, be- 
tween whom and Mr. Stanley — for Ella was too ill herself to 
write — there had been kept up the most constant correspondence ; 
and her mother's letters were a sweet solace to her beloved daugh- 
ter, and she begged Charles to read them to her over and over 
again. Her affectionate and sweet manner often brought tears to 
the eyes of her nurse at witnessing such patient suffering. 

In her decay she w-as beautiful ; and her eye brightly beamed 
with intelligence and love. 

One fine afternoon, after she had sat up for several hours with- 
out fatigue, she expressed a wish to walk on the beach and select a 
few choice and rare shells, which abound there, as a token to be 
sent to her mother, and she remarked, " It is, perhaps, the last one 
my beloved parents may receive from my hands." Her strength 
seemed this day greater than for weeks past, and, with the aid of 
Mr. Stanley, she walked to the sea shore, and selected a number 
of pretty shells. As she sat down to rest for a few moments, feel- 
ing slight fatigue, her husband called her attention, as he had 
oftentimes done before, to the beauties of the scene around, and 
remarked, " Dear Ella, do you not feel as Eve is said to have ex- 
claimed when leaving the fair garden of Eden, ' must I quit thee, 
Paradise V " She turned to him with a sweet smile, and, resting 
her pale, delicate hand in his, recited that admired hymn by Dr. 
Muhlenberg, beginning, " I w^ould not live always." 

In returning to the house she fainted, so weak and exhausted • 
was her frame ; and Charles hfted her in his arms and carried her 
to her room. 

That night he sat very late conversing with her, and her conver- 
sation was never more cheerful. 



146 mCIDENTS OF LIFE 



It was near midnight when he left her, in charge of both nurse 
and maid, and retired to his own room. 

Dr. Dewitt had warned Mr. Stanley that the most probable issue 
of her case would be sudden death from hemorrhage of the lungs, 
and any violent fit of coughing alarmed him deeply ; for although 
he had to be familiar with the certainty that her death must soon 
ensue, he dreaded to meet the reality. This night his slumbers 
were much disturbed. He was more painfully anxious than usual ; 
and yet there seemed no immediate cause for it, as, to all appear- 
ance, she seemed even better this evening when he parted from 
her. 

About three o'clock in the morning, he was suddenly awakened 
by the nurse rushing into his room, and exclaiming, "Massa! 
Massa ! come quickly !'' His worst fears were excited ; and in a 
state of perfect bewilderment he threw on his dressing-gown, and 
ran to Ella's apartment. What an appalling scene he there wit- 
nessed ! 

Ella was sitting up in bed, supported by her nurse and maid, 
whose looks were those of agonized horror. Too well they knew 
the end of this painful scene. The blood was streaming from her 
mouth, and she seemed to be suffocating. She could not speak ; 
but in all this agony, she cast on her beloved husband a look so 
full, so intent, so expressive of an affectionate farewell, that he 
grasped her hand, and knelt at her bed-side in prayer to God, that 
his darling saint might be spared to him, if but for one day longer 
— an hour even ! He felt the slight pressure of her hand, and 
then she sank back on her pillow. 

In that one moment, the soul of his beloved Ella had winged its 
flight back to heaven ! 

Note. — A few days since I received a communication from Mrs. Mary E. Hewitt, an Amer- 
ican authoress of high literary reputation, requesting me to contribute something, in poetry or 
in prose, towards a volume to be shortly issued from the New- York press— the productions of 
the principal literary writers in the United States— to be edited by her, the object of which 
is to create the funds necessary to erect a nionument over the grave of the late talented, 
and lamented American poetess, Mrs. Frances Sargsnt Osgood. 

My acquaintance with this elegant, and distinguished writer, was of a nature so pleasing 
and agreeable— my estimate of her character so high— and my lament at her death so 
unfeigned— that, iuipelled by the sole motive of adding my humble portion to the tribute in 



INCIDENTS OF LIFE. 147 



the form suggested,— tAe erection of a cairn by the intellect and affections of her literary 
friends, I promptly acquiesced in the wish of Mrs. Hewitt, and the preceding tale is my 
part of the volume referred to. 

Like Ella, her disease was also consumption ; and her death was marked by the same 
sweet disposition which so characterized her through life ; and she glided from time to a 
" better inheritance,*' with a spirit wholly resigned to the will of the Great Dispenser of 
human events. 

Desirous to keep within the space assigned to each writer in the volume so sacredly 
dedicated to the memory of the deceased, 1 have been compelled to omit much in the tale 1 
have written, which suggested itself to my mind. The story is strictly " founded on facts ;" 
but the names I have introduced are not in all cases the real names of the parties. Some 
of them were personally known to me ; and the character of each is truthful, without any 
embellishment of fiction. 

I knew the lovely and incomparable Ella. 

She was all she is represented to have been ! I have since then stood beside her grave, 
and read the monument erected by her bereaved husband in St. Michael's Church-yard, 
Barbadoes, and I have there pondered over the fate of one whose dawn of existence 
promised so much happiness. 

In the language of the author of " Efiigies Poetica " — 

" She had trod from her cradle to her grave amid incense and flowers,— and died in a dream of gloiy." 

Nbw-Youk, June, 1850. The Author. 



148 OUR FRIENDSHIP IS A VANISHED DREAM. 



OUR FRIENDSHIP IS A VANISHED DREAM! 



;Y ELIZABETH BOGART. 



Our friendsliip is a vanished dream, 

Which Time can ne'er restore us ! 
For the dark waves of Lethe's stream 

Are rushing on before us. 
Our feet will soon its waters touch, 

Our burning lips will drink them, 
And these wild thoughts which pain so much, 

We ne'er ao-ain shall think them. 



•»- 



A little while, and we shall meet 

Without a trace of feeling ; 
And coldly smile, and coldly greet, 

With brow and heart congealing. 
A little while! but ah, not yet! 

Some hours are still remaining 
Of deep, and sad, and vain regret. 

No hope the soul sustaining. / 

Those hours are drifting to their doom, 

On hfe's unstable ocean, 
Its " tenth wave''"'^ comes with heavy gloom 

To stifle each emotion. 
Then like the faithful carrier bird. 

Fate will have done her mission. 
And wo may meet without a word, 

Or siojn of recoa;nitibn. 

♦ It is affirmed by familiar and strict observers of the ocean from the shore, that the iem.th 
wave in succession is always the strongest and heaviest. 



OUR FRIENDSHIP IS A VANISHED DREAM. 149 

The wintry winds whicli bear away 

The dead leaves of the flowers, 
Are moaning now a requiem lay 

O'er all our happy hours. 
And oft at night when others sleep, 

"We to their wail shall listen 
While the pale stars their vigils keep, 

Or the cold moonbeams glisten. 

Our friendship is a vanished dream ! 

Its light, no longer glowing. 
Flashed o'er us Hke a meteor gleam, 

A moment's brilliance throwing. 
All things were in that light illumed, 

All hopes in it united — 
Its burning rays itself consumed. 

And left us all benighted. 

There was a time when I believed 

No change our hearts could sever — 
How easily we are deceived 

By th§,t mistaken never ! 
To love, and think that love will last 

Forever without turning. 
Is but a vision of the past. 

Which we are sadly learning. 

'T is written in an open book. 

We need not seek another ; 
For we may read it while we look 

In silence on each other. 
The careless, cold, averted eye, 

Shall be to us a token 

That will unerringly imply 

Our covenant is broken. 
13 



150 OUR FRIENDSHIP IS A VANISHED DREAM. 

A vanished dream ! a vanished dream ! 

Is all our friendship's pleasures ! 
Dull Lethe's dark oblivious stream 

Waits to receive its treasures. 
No bark upon that river glides, 

O'er its deep pool to steer us, 
Our hopes are buried in its tides. 

And never more shall cheer us. 



i 



m MEMORY OF MRS. OSGOOD. 151 



IN MEMORY OF MRS. OSGOOD. 

BY EMILY WATERS. 

Not on the earth again shall we behold thee — 

Not in the scenes thy presence made so dear ; 
Kot in our arms again shall we enfold thee 

With that high trust that knows no doubt or fear. 
Yet, in our dreams, we still can look upon thee, 

And half believe thou hast not passed away ; 
That thou art here, as ere the angels won theej 

Thy beauteous spirit changing night to day. 

How bright the vision ! we behold thee ever, 

Fair Eden-type, as woman erst was given ; 
Linked to our hearts with ties not death could sever- 

With ties that hold us to thee, though in heaven. 
Truest in feeling, thou, of all earth's daughters ; 

Playful and bold in intellectual might ; 
With a deep well of woman's truth, whose waters 

The angel, Love, forever waked to light. 

Ordained the organ of the heart's revealings — 

To voiceless spirits giving words and breath ; 
And full thyself of generous faults and feehngs, 

Fit oracle thou wert of love and faith. 
Yet, as thy pen interpreted the spirit. 

That rules the female heart, it was thy ooom 
To show thine own, and in the world's gaze wear it. 

Until it sunk exhausted to the tomb. 



152 



m MEMORY OF MRS. OSGOOD. 



Brief, swift, and bright, far up Fame's dizzy summit, 

Has been thy devious, but sublime career : 
Fair as the moon, yet errant as a comet. 

Thy radiant spirit passed before us here. 
That orb went down at noon — no evening tender 

Dimmed it while sinking in the shoreless sea ; 
And long upon our sky, thy sunset splendor 

Shall cheer the blessed memories of thee. 



Meanwhile, beyond the far-off cloudy portal, 

Thou risest clad with new and higher powers ; 
And thy soul's glorious beauty, now immortal, 

Shall glow in angel eyes, as erst in ours ; 
And, like a guiding star, thou wilt be shining 

Upon our night, through all this vale of tears ; 
Till we shall meet thee at our sun's declining. 

And join our march to thine amid the spheres. 



I 



THE PASSAGE OF THE JORDAN. 

BY ALICE B. NEAL. 

My feet are treading on the very brink 

Of Death's swift rolling waters, and my heart 

That longed in weariness of earth for this, 

Grows trembling, and amazed. The w^ilderness — 

Hot with its burning sands, and poisoned winds. 

Rugged with toilsome paths and frowning steeps — 

Loses its frightful aspect, and invites 

The wanderer back, to tread once more its ways. 

There were some palm trees in the trackless waste ! 

Some flowers that grew beneath their kindly shade ! 

All was not desolate, and dark, and drear ! 

And I may find a rest, and gather strength 

Ere I go hence. For now my heart is low, 

My pulses flutter faintly, and a mist 

Is gathering o'er my eyes ; the fearful roar 

Of wild and stormy waters fills my soul. 

I have no power to breast the foaming waves, — 

Already do I shudder as the spray 

Dashes upon my brow with ice-cold kiss. 

So, when the tribes of Israel stood beside 

The Jordan's swollen, turbid stream of old. 

May one amid the joyful host have stayed : 

Some fair young girl whose robes were soiled with dust, 

Whose sandalled feet had longed for this repose. 

Perhaps with all the rest this hour had seemed 

The blest fulfilment of a hfe-long prayer ^ 

And now the toil was o'er, it but remained 
13* 



154 



THE PASSAGE OF THE JORDAK 



To enter into rest. That deep wild flood ! 

How could its waves be trod ? What new support 

Would be vouchsafed to lead her safely through 1 

A shout of triumjih rose from all around, 

None noticed that her cheek grew ashen pale, 

Or marked the trembhng of her folded hands : 

When lo ! the waves divide, as when at first 

Her father's band had crossed the angry sea 

That whelm'd the horse and rider in its depths. 

The ark of God, supported by His priests, 

Sent back the billows heaped on either side ; 

And now with eyes upraised, as if to seek 

The cloudy pillar, which had ever been 

A guide through all their wanderings, — and with trust 

Serene and child-like in the hand that gave 

The food of angels daily from on high — 

The maiden joined the glad thanksgiving song. 

And passed dry shod where she had feared to tread. 



So let it be. The ark has gone before. 

The white-robed priests point to its onward way. 

Friends — kindred, — beckon from the other side. 

Oh, craven souls to shrink from what they love, 

To dream of turning back from promised rest, 

Back, to the fearful wilderness of Sin ! 

So leaning on the arm that hath upheld 

My footsteps since I faltered near the cross, 

Lt)oking for courage to the patient eyes 

That watched my wanderings with forgiving glance, — 

My friend ! My master ! see I brave with thee 

The flood that closes round me as I pass. 

My lips no longer trembling with afl'right. 

Murmur, " Oh Grave, where is thy victory now ! 

Oh Death ! thy victim robs thee of thy sting." 



A STORY OF THE CAPE DE VERDES. 



155 



A STORY OF THE CAPE DE VERDES. 



AN OMITTED CHAPTER OF " KALOOLAH. 



BY W. S. MAYO, M.D. 



"It is a curious fact, that at the time of the discovery of the islands, the Peak of Fuego did not exist; that is, if 
we may believe the traditions of the inhabitants. Certain it is, that Cada Mosto, an adventurous Genoese — in the 
service of the Portuguese — who discovered them, makes no mention of it ; and it was some time after his day that 
the name he gave it, St. Felipe, was superseded by that of Fuego, or island of fire. It seems, that shortly after 
Cada Mosto's visit, the whole island was enveloped in flames, and that, in consequence, no efforts were made to 
people it for many years. At length the fire having subsided, excepting at what is now the Peak, the king of Por- 
tugal issued an edict, granting the lands to whoever would settle upon them, and a scanty population was soon 
drawn from St. Jago, Mayo, and the other islands, partly allured by the hope of finding some of the gold, which, 
according to tradition, was the cause of the fire. 

"Among our crew, as I have said, were several Portuguese, two or three of whom were natives of the Cape do 
Verdes — black, curly-headed fellows, with marks of the strong infusion of negro blood, common to all the inhabi- 
tants of the islands. It was of these, and surrounded by a group of other sailors, that I was making some inquiries 
in relation to Fonta de Villa and the little town of La Ghate, off which we were becalmed. All at once a broad 
glare of light shot up from the dark mountain, illuminating the rugged sides, and streaming in the darkness of the 
night far out to seaward. 

" ' El Pico ! El Pico !' exclaimed a dozen voices. 

" Two tall columns flashed upwards from the momitain — at one moment steady and erect — the next, quivering 
and swaying to and fro in the currents of the wind ; now seeming to repel each other, now bowing, crouching and 
turning, like wary combatants, preparing for a struggle for life or death, they would rush at each other, close, and 
writhe for an instant in the fierce embrace. 

" ' Los Padres /' shouted one fellow. ' Los Magkos /' exclaimed a second. ' Los Alquimistas ." bellowed a third. 

" ' Priests, magicians and alchemists ! M'^hat do you mean V I demanded. 

" ' Oh, ask Pedro Vosalo,' replied one of the crew, ' he was bom just round the point, where you see so many 
sea-weed fires, in the little bay of Kossa Senora, and he knows aU. about it. Pedro ! Pedro ! come here, and tell 
aenor el medico the story of the magicians.' 

" Nothing loth. Master Pedro, a little, round-shouldered, bandy-legged mulatto, came forward, and throwing 
aside the stump of his paper segar, commenced his story, which, fortunately for the reader, I am not disposed to 
attempt giving in the execrable patois, half Spanish and half Portuguese, in which it was told." 

The above is an extract from the romance of Kaloolali. While 
that work was going through the press it was found necessary, in 
order to keep it within certain limits as to size and price, to sup- 
press a good many pages. Among matter thus thrown out was 
Pedro's story, which ran as follows : 

" You must know, senor," began Pedro, " that many, many years 
ago there lived over on the other island of St. Jago, two very cele- 
brated men, who were renowned as much for their knowledge, as 
for their pretended piety and holiness. They were both monks of 
the most holy order of St. Dominick. The name of the one was 



156 A STORY OF THE CAPE DE VERDES. 

Father Gonzalo, and of the other Father Alvarez. No one knew 
anything of their history except that they had been great travellers 
and students. They had not known each other until their arrival 
at St. Jago, but they immediately formed a great friendship. They 
kept aloof from their brethren of the convent, and were often heard 
talking together in a very queer kind of language, and seen draw- 
ing the most diabolical figures upon the ground. Still they were 
such very good Christians to all appearance, that no one dared to 
say anything against them openly, although the brethren in time 
began to think that they knew a great deal more than a pious man 
ought to, and that they might be wizards, or perhaps alchemists." 

" Alchemists !" I demanded, " What do you understand by that?" 

" I don't know, senor ; but Father Chacon used to tell us that it 
was something a great deal worse than a witch, or a magician. 
God save us from all such ;" — and here the little rascal devoutly 
crossed himself, in which he was followed by his cut-throat com- 
panions, who were grouped around us. 

" Well, things went on in this way for a long time," continued 
Pedro, " until at last the two Fathers began to find out that every- 
body suspected them ; and so they resolved to come over to this 
island and live. At that time it was supposed that there was not 
a single inhabitant here. There was no Peak then, but it was very 
high and rocky, and it was covered all over so thick with sulphur 
that there was no place where you could plant an olive tree or a 
grape vine. 

" Very glad were the people of St. Jago when the two Fathers 
took a small boat and set out, because although they had done no 
harm to any one, every one was afraid that some day, with their 
great knowledge, they would destroy the town, and perhaps the 
whole island. No one could feel safe for a moment when he knew 
that they had sold their souls, and that at any moment the Evil 
One might come for them, and perhaps take the opportunity to 
carry off more than he had bargained for, because you see, senor, 
the Devil, if he can get any excuse for coming into a town, has a 



I 



right to carry off any one who has neglected to confess or attend 
mass." 

"Indeed! I was not aware," said I, "that that was a privilege 
of his Satanic Excellency." 

" Oh, yes, senor, I've often heard Father Chacon say so. Well, 
you see the monks landed and set about building a stone hut, 
thinking that they were all alone upon the island, when in the 
midst of their work they saw coming towards them a stately, noble, 
well-dressed cavaher — a real Don. He was dressed in a magnilS- 
cent cloth cloak, beneath which he wore a shirt of mail, covered in 
front with a leather apron with slits in it, into which were stuck a 
huge dagger and two or three pairs of pistols. The scabbard of 
his long spado, or sword, was made to open by means of a spring, 
to save time and trouble in drawing the weapon, and over the 
pummel was hung a chaplet of beads like a good and Christian 
gentleman. Upon his head he wore a high peaked hat, with a 
brim an arm's length in width, and looped up a little on one side 
with a silk cord and a tassel as big as my fist. Oh ! wasn't that a 
most splendid dress ! I've had it described to me fifty times, and it 
seems to me that I never could get tired of hearing of it." 

" Or talking of it either, Senor Mablatesta,'" interposed a rough 
guardian del contramaestre, or boatswain's mate. " Go on with 
your story, and don't stand jabbering about it all night." 

Thus admonished, Pedro continued his discourse. 

" The Don saluted the two monks and welcomed them to the 
island, upon which he said he had been for many years, having been 
wrecked on his passage to the Mina, or Gold-coast, and the only 
one saved out of the whole crew. He offered them any assistance 
in his power, and soon the three grew very friendly, each one glad 
of the new acquaintance he had made. 

" In this way they lived together for several days, until at last 
the Don told the monks, among other things, that there was plenty 
of gold on the island, and at their request he took them and show- 
ed them where it was to be found. As soon as they saw the gold 
the monks began to think that their new friend was one too many, 



158 A STORY OF THE CAPE DE VERDES. 

and that it would be much better to share the gold between two 
than three : so they consulted together and concluded to murder 
the Don in his sleep. But for my part I can't see why, if they 
were great magicians and could make gold, they should have been 
so anxious to keep the Don out of his share of what he had found. 

" But so it was : they killed the Don and began collecting the 
gold which he had shown them. But they had not worked long 
at that business before they began to disagree. Each one wanted 
to assume power over the other, and each one expressed a deter- 
mination to lay claim to more than half the precious metal: so 
that from being the best of friends they soon came to be mortal 
foes. 

" ' I tell you,' said Gonzalo, * that I am the most renowned and 
learned magician of the two. Have I not studied in the East at 
the very fountain-head of science ? Have I not been taught the 
mysteries of the most holy Cahaa. Am I not the favorite disciple 
of my master Mahmoud? I tell you I am the superior, and I will 
be obeyed.' 

" * Go to,' replied Alvarez, ' with your Cabaa and your Mahmoud. 
Haven't I travelled all over Soudan and Bambarsa, and lived in the 
great city of Tombute, and don't I know all the mysteries of the 
Fetish^ and am I not the favorite disciple of the great Ohih? Go 
to, I say, I am the most learned and the most powerful magician, 
and I will be obeyed.' 

" And so they wrangled for three days, and then they withdrew 
to different parts of the island, and commenced working at their 
art, each one to destroy the other. All kinds of tricks and sorceries 
and incantations they practised against each other; and the fight 
between Mahmoud and Obih lasted a great many weeks. All that 
time the island was covered with thick clouds which could be plain- 
ly seen at St. Jago; and in the clouds hosts of spirits rushed upon 
one another night and day with a most terrific noise. 

"One night the good citizens of Ribeyro Grande were startled 
by a great light, and looking over this way they saw the whole 
island in flames. The magicians' had set it on fire — " 



A STORY OF THE CAPE DE YERDES. 159 

" Whether by accident or design is not known, I suppose ?" 

" No, senor, but Father Chacon used to tell us that the way he 
thought it came about was this. You see the ground was all cover- 
ed with sulphur, and one of the magicians used such a powerful 
charm to call up the Evil Spirit, that he was compelled to come in- 
stantly, without time to cool on the way, so that arriving here hiss- 
ing hot, the moment his fiery feet touched the sulphur the whole 
soil took fire." 

" A very probable supposition of Father Chacon," said I. 

"Oh! yes, senor; Father Chacon knows how all such things 
come about. But to finish my story : — The fire continued to burn 
for a great many years, and amidst the flame and smoke the magi- 
cians could be seen fighting with each other, aided by vast armies 
of spirits and demons." 

" And which conquered ?'' 

" Oh ! neither of them as yet, senor. They keep it up yet, as 
you can see with your own eyes. Those two flames are the magi- 
cians themselves. You see the gold is in the mountain, and when 
the fire subsided and people came over here from the other islands, 
the two monks took up their residence in the Peak, and by their 
struggles have raised it up so high. Sometimes for weeks you can 
hear them growling and threatening, and throwing great stones 
with so much force that at times they fly up into the sky twice 
as high as the mountain, and sometimes they come out and fight 
upon the top of the Peak, as they do to-night. See, now they 
have got hold of each other, and hear how they bellow and roar." 

The flames now rushed together, writhed and twisted, • again 
separated and again united, with an appearance of animosity and 
rage that might almost justify a belief in the legend. 

" And the gold," said I, " has any of it ever been found ?" 

"No, senor, but the inhabitants are in hopes every day that 
some of it will be thrown over the side of the mountain. When- 
ever there is a great eruption they always go to look for it, but as 
yet they have never found anything but pumice stones and sul- 



160 A STORY OF THE CAPE DE VERDES. 

pliur. Some day it will come, and then won't they be rich? The 
meanest fisherman of Fonta (Je Villa will have sombreros with a 
brim as large as our honetas de Foynes^ (jib bonnets,) and cloaks 
that will come down to their heels, and rosaries of real coral and 
pearls." 

The traveller, whose bad luck it may be, to put up at the dirty 
posada, in the little miserable town of Za Gkate^ will find upon 
inquiry, that Pedro's story is a true legend of Fuego, and that the 
common people are not alone in their belief of its truth. It is a 
matter of faith as well with the priests, the dignitaries and the 
governor of the town, which it would take two or three courses of 
geological lectures to unsettle. Fortunately for the credit of the 
wizards of the Peak, there is no lyceura at La Ghate, and the 
schoolmaster has never taken the Cape de Verdes in his tour. 



FERNSIDE. 

BY GEORGE "VT. DEWEY. 

Across the fields the wayward May hath thrown her blessed smiles, 
And swung her flowery censers all along the woodland aisles ; 
Her singing shakes the blossoms from the lilacs in the lane, 
Which overhang the hoof-prints with their pools of April rain. 

Around the cottage porch she hangs the woodbine's scented stars, 
And twines the honeysuckle-wreaths between the treUis bars ; 
Beside the bridge the maple throws a tribute, at her will, 
Upon the stream which through the shade is winding to the mill. 

Along the road the wandering rill goes trickling from its spring. 
And flashes in the sunshine like the swallow's burnished wing. 
The chestnut has renewed its leaves : — the vines embrace the oak — 
As if an olden friendship with the season had awoke ! 

161 




FERNSIDE. 



BY GEOEGE W. DEWEY. 



Across the fields the wayward May hath thrown her blessed smiles, 
And swung her flowery censers all along the woodland aisles ; 
Her singing shakes the blossoms from the lilacs in the lane, 
Which overhang the hoof-prints with their pools of April rain. 

Around the cottage porch she hangs the woodbine's scented stars, 
And twines the honeysuckle-wreaths between the trellis bars ; 
Beside the bridge the maple throws a tribute, at her will, 
Upon the stream which through the shade is winding to the mill. 

Along the road the wandering rill goes trickling from its spring. 
And flashes in the sunshine like the swallow's burnished wing. 
The chestnut has renewed its leaves : — the vines embrace the oak — 
As if an olden friendship with the season had awoke ! 

161 



162 FERNSIDE. 



And to the leafy hollows now the robins all return, 
To sing besi'de the streamlets that are bordered by the fern ; 
And to the clover meadows, too, the lark has brought his lay, 
To herald in the morning that is breathing of the May. 

But these are not the only signs that tell me of the spring, 
Beside me now Life's May-time stands — a little hindering thing : — 
A bud which by our household fire, through all the winter's frost. 
Hath kept that flowery beauty which matnrer boughs have lost ! 

And we have watched her daily growth, and like the clambering vine 
Which rising at the oak's broad base the topmost limbs entwine, — 
Have seen her youth encircle us with foliage that shall spread, 
In after-time, a shelter and a beauty overhead. 



TO HIM "WHOSE HEART-STRINGS WERE A LUTE." 163 



TO HIM " WHOSE HEART-STRINGS WERE A LUTE." 

BY SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 

I MOURN tliee not. — No words can tell 
The solemn calm that tranced my breast 

When first I knew thy soul had passed 
From earth to its eternal rest. 

For doubt and darkness o'er thy head 

Forever waved their condor wings, 
And in their murky shadows bred 

Forms of unutterable things. 

And all around thy silent hearth, 

" The glory that once blushed and bloomed, 

W^as but a dim remembered dream 
Of the old time entombed." 

Few were the hearts whose music woke 
To thy weird harp, that loved to dwell 

On far-off " faery-lands forlorn " 
The wild, sweet harp of Israfel ! 

Those melancholy eyes that seemed 

To look beyond all time, or turned 
On eyes they loved, so softly beamed. 

How few their mystic language learned ! 

How few could read their depths, or know 
The proud, high heart, that dwelt alone 

In gorgeous palaces of wo. 

Like Eblis on his burninor throne. 



164 TO HIM "WHOSE HEART-STRINGS WERE A LUTE." 

For ah, no human heart might brook 
The darkness of thy doom to share, 

And not a hving eye could look 
Unscathed upon thy dread despair. 

I mourn thee not ! — No lethean wave, 
No lotus flower thy grief could quell, 

Nor all earth's " drowsy syrops " save 
Remembrance from its sleepless hell. 

Yet, while the night of life shall last. 
While the slow stars above me roll, 

In the heart's solitudes I keep 
A solemn vigil for thy soul. 

I tread dim cloistral aisles, where all 
Beneath are hollow-sounding graves, 

While o'er the oriel hke a pall 
A dark funereal shadow waves. 

There, kneeling by a lampless shrine, — 

Alone amid a place of tombs, — 
My erring spirit pleads for thine 

Till light along the orient blooms. 

Oh, when thy faults are all forgiven, 
When all my sins are purged away, 

May our freed spirits meet in heaven, 
Where darkness melts to perfect day. 

There may thy wondrous harp awake, 
And there my ransomed soul with thee 

Behold the eternal morning break ^ 

In glory o'er the Jasper Sea. 



A STORY OF CALAIS. 165 



A STORY OF CALAIS. 

BY THE AUTHOR OF "ST. LEGER." 

Some years ago, I was detained unexpectedly in Calais for an 
entire week. It was with difficulty I could occupy the time. 
For a while ray chief resource was to inspect the different faces 
which daily presented themselves at the Hotel de Meurice, where 
one could see every variety of features belonging to every country, 
age, sex, and condition. I grew tired of this presently, for I had 
been on the continent a considerable period, and had seen the hu- 
man species under as many different phases as could well be im- 
agined. Therefore, when the third day brought with it one of 
those disagreeable storms pecuhar to the coast — half drizzle, half 
sleet and rain — it found me weary of the amusement of attending 
on new arrivals and departures, and of the nameless petty doings 
by which time, in a bustling hotel, is attempted to be frittered 
away. A misty, dreary, damp, offensive day ! An out-and-out 
tempest, a thorough right down drenching rain, would have been 
in agreeable contrast with the previous hot, dusty, sunny weather ; 
but this — it seemed absolutely intolerable! I was, besides, in 
no particular condition to be pleased. I was neither sitting out 
upon a tour, nor returning from one, but had been interrupted in 
my progress and forced to a stand still at this most uninteresting 
spot. I came down, and with a bad grace, to order breakfast. 

" Gar9on, Cafe — ceufs a la coque — biftek — rotie — vite !" 

I was abo.ut repeating this in a louder tone, for the waiter seemed 
engrossed with something more important than attending to my 
wants, when I heard a quiet voice behind me — 

" Gargon, Cafe — ceufs a la coque — biftek — rotie — vite!" 



106 A STORY OF CALAIS. 

I turned angrily upon the speaker, doubtful of the design of this 
repetition of my order. 

The reader will perceive that my breakfast was a substantial one ; 
indeed, such a breakfast as an American, who had not so far lost 
himself in "European society" as to forget his appetite, would be 
very likely to call for. The idea that I was watched, doubtless 
made me a little suspicious, or sensitive, or irritable ; at any rate, I 
turned, as I have said, angrily upon the speaker. He was a slightly 
made, elderly man, at least fifty, with pleasant features, a calm ap- 
pearance, and quiet manners — a person evidently at home with the 
world. I recollected at the same moment, that the stranger had 
been at the hotel ever since my arrival there, although I had not, 
from his unobtrusive habit, given him more than a passing no- 
tice. His appearance at once dispelled the frown which I had 
brought to bear upon him ; but when he answered my stare with a 
respectful yet half familiar bow, I could have sworn that it came 
from an old acquaintance. I need not say that I returned the 
salutation cordially. At the same time my new friend rose, came 
towards me, and held out his hand. 

" I am quite sure," he said, " that you are an American — 
perhaps a New Englander ; / am both ; why, then, should not 
countrymen beguile an unpleasant day in company? Excuse 
me — I did hear your order just now, and as it suited my own 
taste, I proposed to myself that we should breakfast together ; — 
we may trust to Francois ; he has been here, to my knowledge, 
more than twenty years, and pleases everybody." 

I pressed the hand of my new acquaintance — acknowledged my- 
self to be from New Hampshire — gave my name, and received in 
return — " Philip Belcher." 

We sat down to the same table, and very soon Francois appeared 
with a well-served breakfast. 

" Pray," said I, " what can one do to reheve the monoto- 
ny of this intolerable place. If the country about were agreea- 
ble — nay, if it were bearable ! but as it is, I repeat, what is to be 
done r 



A STORY OF CALAIS. 167 






" Done !" said Mr. Belcher, rather sharply, " a hundred things 
Put on your Mackintosh and overshoes ; come with me to the 
Courtgain, and see the fishermen putting to sea, their boats towed 
out by their wives and daughters : a sight, I will be bound, you 
have not beheld, although you may have coursed Europe over, and 
been at Calais half a dozen times." 

Mr. Belcher proceeded in this vein, detailing many things that 
could be seen to advantage even in Calais ; but as he suggested 
nothing which interested me so much as he himself did, I had the 
boldness to tell him so, and that my curiosity was excited to know 
more of him. 

" There is nothing in my history that can amuse a stranger ; 
indeed, it is without incident or marvel. To be sure, I am alone 
in the world, but I have never been afflicted, or suffered misfortnne, 
within my recollection. My parents died when I was very young ; 
my father and mother were both only children ; a small property 
which the former left was carefully invested, and faithfully nursed 
during my minority, by a scrupulous and honest lawyer, in no way 
connected with us, but whom my father named as executor in his 
will, and my guardian. Ill health prevented my getting on at 
school. I can't say that I was an invalid, but my constitution 
was delicate and my temperament nervous. I tried to make some 
progress in the study of a profession, under my excellent guardian, 
but was forced to give it up as too trying to my nerves. The ex- 
citement of a court-room I could not endure for a day, much less 
for a Hfe-time. Before I was twenty-five, my income had so much 
increased that I could afford to travel. I have gained in this way 
my health, which, however, would become impaired should I re- 
turn to a sedentary life ; so, as a matter of necessity, I have wan- 
dered about the world. You see ray story is soon told." 

I found Mr. Belcher was not in the habit of talking about him- 
self, and I liked him the better for it. Without pressing for a 
more particular account, I led the conversation to treat of the dif- 
ferent countries he had visited, referring, by the way, to some 
14* 



168 A STORY OF CALAIS. 

principal objects of attraction. Here I touched an idiosyncrasy of 
my new friend. 

"I never formed," he said, "any distinct 'plan' of travel. I 
never 'did' Paris in eight days, nor the gallery of the Louvre in 
half an hour, as they have been by an acquaintance. I never opened 
a guide-book in my life ; I never employed a commissionere, a valet, 
a courier, a cicerone, or a dragoman. My pleasure has been to let 
the remarkable — the beautiful — the interesting — burst upon me 
without introduction, and I have found my account in it. I have 
quitted the Val d'Arno, turned off from the Lake of Como, passed 
to the wrong side of Lake Leman and its romantic castles, pur- 
suing my way, regardless of these well-worn attractions, while I 
beheld rarer — at least less familiar scenes — and enjoyed with zest 
what was so fresh and unhackneyed. No everlasting 'route' — no 
mercenary and dishonest landlords — no troops of travellers, travel- 
ling that they may become ' travelled ;' — but in place of all this, I 
saw everything naturally — the country in its simplicity — the in- 
habitants in their simplicity — while, I trust, I have preserved my 
own simphcity. Indeed, I rather prefer what your tourist calls an 
' uninteresting region.' " 

" For that reason," I remarked, pleasantly, " you have come 
here to Calais to spend a few weeks : you must enjoy the barren 
sand-plain which extends all the way from this to St. Omer. How 
picturesque are those pollards scattered along the road, with here 
and there a superanuated windmill looking like an ogre with three 
arms and no legs : then, to reheve the dreariness of the place, 
you have multitudes of miserable cabins, grouped into more 
miserable villages, to say nothing of the chateaux of dingy red, 
in which painters of the brick-dust school so much dehght. Real- 
ly, Mr. Belcher, you will have a capital field here !" 

My new acquaintance shook his head a little seriously, as if 
deprecating further pleasantry. 

" You are like the rest of them, I fear," he remarked, " a sur- 
face traveller ; at least you will force me to beheve so if you go on 
in this way. But come," he continued, " the storpi threatens to last 



zru 

i 



A STORY OF CALAIS. 169 

the morning ; if you wish, I will lielp to make away with part of 
it, by recounting a, little adventure which happened to me hard by 
those very pollards, which you are .pleased to abuse so freely." 

It is needless to add that I joyfully assented to the proposal, 
and was soon seated in Mr. Belcher^s room before a cheerful fire — 
for he had managed even in Calais to procure one — when he com- 
menced as follows : 

" I think it was during the first season I was on the continent, 
that I visited St. Omer. After spending a day or two in that 
place, I concluded to walk to Calais, and set out one day ac- 
cordingly. 

" The weather was fine ; but after I had been a few hours on the 
road, the wind began to blow directly in my face, and soon en- 
veloped me in a cloud of sand from which there seemed no 
escape, and which threatened actually to suffocate me. To avoid 
this I left the highway, but keeping what I supposed to be in 
the general direction of the road, I struck out into the adjacent 
fields. There was nothing for a considerable distance to repay me 
for this detour^ except that I thus was rid of the sand. The 
country was barren and uninteresting, the cottages httle better 
than hovels and the whole scene uninviting. But I pushed 
on, not a whit discouraged ; indeed my spirits rose as the 
prospect darkened, and like a valiant general invading a country 
for the purpose of conquering a peace, I resolved in some way to 
force an adventure before I reached Calais. I trudged along for 
hours, stopping occasionally for a draught of sour wine and a bit 
of bread. I made no inquiry about the main road, for I preferred 
to know nothing of it. In this way I proceeded, until it was al- 
most night, when I spied, some half a mile distant, a cluster of trees 
surrounding a small tenement. I turned at once toward the spot, 
and coming up to it, found a cottage not differing in size or struc- 
ture from those I had seen on the way, except that it appeared 
even more antiquated. It was, however, in perfect repair,* and 
finely shaded by a variety of handsome trees, and flanked on one 
side by a neat garden. The door stood open and I entered. There 



170 A STORY OF CALAIS. 



was no one in the room. I called, but received no answer. I 
strayed out into the garden and walked through it. At the lower 
end was a small enclosure covered over at the top as if to protect 
it from the weather, and fenced on each side with open wire-work, 
looking through which, I beheld a small grave, overspread with 
mosses, and strewed with fresh-gathered white flowers. It bore no 
name or inscription, except the following simple but pathetic line : 

"Enfant cherie, avec toi mes beaux jours sont passes. — 1794." 
Surprised by the appearance of fresh flowers upon a tomb which 
had been so long closed over its occupant, I turned, hoping to find 
some explanation of the mystery, in what I might see elsewhere. 
But there was nothing near to attract one's attention, nor was 
any person within sight. 

" After taking a glance around, I returned to the cottage, and 
walking in, sat down to wait the arrival of the occupants. In a 
few minutes, I heard voices from the side of the house opposite 
the garden, and soon two persons, of the peasant class, evidently 
husband and wife, came in. The man was strong and robust, with 
the erect form and martial appearance acquired only by military 
service, and which the weight of nearly sixty years had not seemed 
to impair. His countenance was frank and manly, and his step 
firm. The woman appeared a few years younger, while the air of 
happy contentment which beamed in her face, put the ordinary 
encroachments of time at defiance. Altogether, I had never seen 
a couple so fitted to challenge observation and interest. They 
both stopped short on seeing me. 

" I hastened to explain my situation, as that of a belated traveller, 
attracted by the sight of the cottage ; and told them I was both 
hungry and tired, and desirous of the hospitality of their roof. I 
was made welcome at once. 

" Louis Herbois, for that was his name, gave me a bluff", soldierly 
greeting, while Agathe, his wife, smiled her acquiescence. Supper 
was icon laid ; I ate with a sharpened appetite, which evidently 
charmed my host, who encouraged me at intervals, as I began 
to flag. 



A STORY OF CALAIS. 171 



" Supper concluded, I was glad to accept the offer of a bed — for 
I was exhausted with fatigue. 

" I had been so engrossed with the repast, that curiosity was for 
the time suspended, and it was not again in action until I had said 
good-night to my entertainers, and found myself in the room 
where I was to sleep. This was an apartment of moderate size ; the 
furniture was old and common, but neither dilapidated nor out of 
order ; the bed was neatly covered ; around the room were 
scattered several books of interest, and in one corner was a neat 
writing-desk, of antiquated appearance, with silver mounting, and 
handsomely inlaid ; while some small articles of considerable value 
placed on a table in another corner, indicated at least occasional 
denizens very different from the peasant and his wife. Yet this 
could not be a rural resort for any family belonging to the town. 
There were but two other apartments in the house, and these were 
occupied. Nevertheless, I reasoned, these things can never have 
been brought here by the worthy people I have seen ; and then 
— the little grave in the garden? who has watched the tomb 
for so many years, preserving the moss so green and the flowers 
so fresh — cherishing an affection which has triumphed over time ? 
How intense, how sacred, how strange must be such devotion ! 
I decided that some persons besides my hosts were concerned, in 
some way, in the history of the little dwelling, and with this con- 
clusion I retired ; and so, being fatigued by my day's travel, I 
soon fell asleep. 

" I awoke about sunrise. Going to the window, I put aside the 
curtain, and looked out into the garden. Louis Herbois and his 
wife were there, renewing the garlands with fresh flowers, and 
watering the moss which was spread over the grave. It must 
be their own child, thought I, and yet — no — I will step out and 
ask them, and put an end to the mystery. I met the good people 
coming in : they inquired if I had rested well, and said that 
breakfast would soon be ready. ' You do not forget your little 
one,' I said to the old fellow, at the same time pointing towards 
the enclosure. 'Monsieur mistakes,' replied he, crossing himself 



devoutly. ' Some dear friend, I suppose V He looked at me 
earnestly : ' On volt hien, Monsieur, que vous etes un homme 
comme il faut. After you have breakfasted, you shall hear the 
story.' ' Ah, there is then a story,' said I to myself, as I fol- 
lowed Louis Herbois into the cottage, where Agathe had preceded 
us, and sat down to an excellent breakfast. When it was concluded, 
I asked for the promised narration. ' Let me see,' said Louis, 
* Agathe, how long have we been married V Agathe, matron as 
she was, actually blushed at the question, yet answered readily, 
without stopping to compute the time. ' Yes ; true ; very well ;' 
resumed Louis. ' You must know. Monsieur, that my father was 
a soldier, and enrolled me, at an early age, in the same company 
with himself. Having been detailed, soon after, on service to one 
of the provinces, I was so severely wounded that I was thought 
to be permanently unfitted for duty, and was honorably dismissed 
■with a life pension. Owing to the care and skill of a famous sur- 
geon who attended me, and whom I was fortunate enough to 
interest, I was at last cured of my wounds, and very soon after, I wan- 
dered away here, for no better reason, I believe, than that Agathe 
was in the neighborhood ; for we had known each other from the 
time we were children. Very soon she and I were married, and 
we took this little place, and were as blessed as was possible. 

" ' In the meantime, great changes were going on at Paris. The 
revolution had begun, and soon swept everything before it. But it 
did not matter with us. We rose with the birds, and went to rest 
with the sun, and no two could have been happier : am I not 
right, Agathe ?' The old lady put her hand affectionately upon 
the shoulder of her husband, but said nothing. 'And we have 
never ceased being happy : we are always happy, are we not, 
Agathe V The tears stood in Agathe's eyes, and Louis Herbois 
went on. * Well, the revolution was nothing to me, they were 
mad with it, and killed the king, and slew each other, until our 
dear Paris became a bedlam — still, as I said, it was nothing to me. 
To be sure, I went occasionally to Calais, where I heard a new lan- 
guage in everybody's mouth, and much talk of " Les hommes 



A STORY OF CALAIS. 173 



suspects/' "Mandats d'arrMs" with shouts of "Abas les aristocrates," 
and " Vive la Republique"-but I did not trouble myself about any 
of it; Agathe and I worked together in the field, and in the garden, 
and in the house— always together— always happy. One morning 
we went out to prune our vines, the door of the house was open, jus't 
as you found it yesterday ; why should we ever shut the door ? we 
were honest, and feared nobody ; we stood— Agathe here on this 
side holding the vine ; I, with my knife, on the other side, bending 
over to lop a sprout from it ; when down came two young peo° 
ple-lad and lass-upon us, as fast as they could run ; out of 
breath— agitated— and as frightened as two wood-pigeons. The 
young man flew to me, and catching hold of my arm Pegged me, 
:pour Vmnour de Dieu, to secrete his wife somewhere-anyvvhere— 
out of the reach of the gens d'armes who were pursuing them. I 
felt in ill humor, for I had cut my finger just then ; besides, I did 
not rehsh the mention of the gens d' amies, so I rephed plainly that 
I would have nothing to do with persons who were suspects. 
Why should I thrust my own neck into the trap ? they had better 
go about their business, and not trouble poor people. Bah ! such a 
speech was not hke Louis Herbois ! but out it came. Heaven knows 
how, and no sooner had I finished than up runs the young creature, 
and seizing my moustache she cries, "My brave fellow, hie away' 
and crop off all this ; none but men have a right to it ; God grant 
you were not born in France: no Frenchman could give such an 
answer to a man imploring protection for his wife. Look at my 
husband-did he ask aid for himself? Do you think he would 
turn ^ you off in this way, had you sought his assistance to save 
herr pointing to Agathe, who stood trembhngall the while hke an 
aspen. "Ah! you have made a mistake, I see you repent, be 
quick ; what will you do with us r And she held me tight by 
the moustache until I should answer, while the husband^'stared 
upon me in a sort of breathless agony. I took another look 
at the httle creature, while she kept fast hold of me, and 
saw that she was— .A Men! I see you understand me,' said 
Louis, interrupting himself, as he glanced towards his wife. My 



174 A STORY OF CALAIS. 



heart knocked loud enough, beheve me, and there the dear little 
thing stood, her hand, as I was telling you, clenched fast in 
my moustache — ha ! ha ! ha ! — and looking so full into my eyes, 
with her own clear bright blue gazers. " Mmi Dieu — mon Dieu / 
Agathe, we must help these pauvres enfansy " You are a French- 
man — I thought so," cried the little one, letting go my moustache 
and clapping her hands. " Oh ! hasten, hasten, or we are lost !" 
" All in good time," said I, " for — " " No, no," interrupted she, 
" they are almost upon us : in a moment we may be captured, and 
then Albert, oh, Albert, what will become of you ?" So saying, 
she threw her arms about her husband, and clung to him as if no- 
thing should part them. " Voila Men les femmes; to the devil 
with my caution ; come with me, and I will put you in a place 
where the whole Directory shall not find you, unless they pull my 
cottage down stone by stone." I hurried them to the house, and 
hid them in a private closet which, following out my soldier-like 
propensities, I had constructed in one end of the room, in a mar- 
vellously curious way. Not a soul but Agathe knew of it, and I 
disliked to give up the secret, but I hurried the young people in, 
and arranged the place, and went back to the vines and cut away 
harder than ever. In two minutes up rode three dragoons with 
drawn swords, as fine looking troopers as one would ask for. I 
saw them reconnoitre the cottage, then spying me, they came to- 
wards us at a gallop. " What have you done with the Comte and 
Comtesse de Choissy ?" said the leading horseman. " You had 
better hold your tongue," I retorted, " than be clattering away at 
random. What the devil do I know of the Comte and Comtesse 
de Choissy, as you call them ?" " Look, you," said the dra- 
goon, laying his hand on my shoulder ; " the persons for whom 
I seek, are escaped prisoners; they were seen to come in the 
direction of this cottage ; our captain watched them with his glass, 
and he swears they are here." "And look you. Monsieur Cavaher, 
I am an old soldier, as you see, if scars and hard service can prove 
one, and it seems to me you should take an old soldier's word. I 
have said all I have to say ; there is my house, the doors are 



i 



A STORY OF CALAIS. 11 5 

open — look for yourself : come, Agathe, we must finish our 
morning's work." So saying, I set at the vines harder than ever. 
I looked neither one way nor the other, but kept clipping, clipping, 
thus standing between the dragoons and poor Agathe, who was 
frightened terribly, although she tried to seem aS busy as I. The 
rider who was spokesman stared for a minute without saying a 
word, and then broke out into a loud laugh. " An old soldier in- 
deed ! — a regular piece of steel ! one has but to point a flint at you, 
and the sparks fly." He turned to his men : " Our captain was mis- 
taken, evidently ; this is a bon camarade ; we may trust to him. 
We will take a turn through the cottage and push forward." With 
that he bid me good morning, and after looking around the house, 
the party made ofi". " Well Agathe, what's to be done now ?" 
said I, when the dragoons were fairly out of sight. " We have 
made a fine business of it." " Ah, Louis," said she, " let us not 
think of the danger; we have saved two innocent hves, for in- 
nocent I know they are : what if we have perilled our own ? Heaven 
will reward us." Nothing more was said, though we both thought 
a great deal, but we kept at our work as if nothing had happened. 
It was a long time before I dared let the fugitives come from their 
hiding-place ; for I was afraid of that cursed glass of Monsieur le 
Capitaine. When I did open it I found my prisoners nearly dead 
with suspense. W^e held a council as to the best means for their 
concealment, for who would have had the heart to turn the young 
people adrift ? and it was finally settled that the comte and his wife 
should dress as peasants, and take what other means were necessary 
to alter their appearance, that they might pass as such without 
suspicion. This was no sooner resolved than carried out. 
Agathe was as busy as a bee, and in a few minutes had a dress 
ready for Victorine — we were to call her by her first name — who 
was now as lively as a creature could be, running about the room, 
looking into the glass, and making fun of her husband, who 
had in the meantime pulled on some of my clothes. After this, 
the young comte explained to me that his father had died a 

short time before, leaving him his title and immense estates, 
16 



176 A STORY OF CALAIS. 

which, however, should he die childless, would pass to an uncle, a 
man unscrupulous and of bad reputation. This uncle was among 
the most conspicuous of the revolutionists. Through his agency 
the Comte de Choissy and his young wife, with whom he had 
been but a twelvemonth united, were arrested, and shortly after 
sentenced to death. They escaped from prison and the guil- 
lotine by the aid of a faithful domestic, and were almost at 
Calais when they discovered that they were pursued. By leav- 
ing the road and sending the carriage forward, they managed 
to gain the few minutes which saved them. Their principal fear 
now was from the wicked designs of the uncle, for the Directory 
had too much on their hands to hunt out escaped prisoners who 
were not specially obnoxious. For some days the young people 
did not stir from the house, but were ever ready to resort to their 
hiding-place on the first alarm. There were, however, no signs 
of the gens cfarmes in the neighborhood. I went to Calais in a little 
while, and found, after much trouble, the old servant who was in 
the carriage when the comte and his wife deserted it. He had 
been permitted to pass on without being molested, so alert were 
the soldiers in pursuit of the fugitives ; and he had brought the few 
effects which he could get together for his master on leaving 
Paris to a safe place ; and to prevent suspicion, he himself had 
taken service with a respectable traiteur. By degrees, I managed 
to bring off everything belonging to my guests, and we fitted up 
the httle room in which you passed the night, as comfortably as 
possible, without having it excite remark from any one casually 
entering it. "Albert" was industrious, aiding me at my work, 
no matter what I was doing, and " Victorine," too, insisted on helping 
my wife in whatever she did, here, there, and everywhere, the live- 
liest, the merriest, the most innocent creature I ever set eyes 
upon. But for all that, one could see that time hung heavy on the 
comte. He became thoughtful and trisie, and like every man out 
of his proper place, he was restless and uneasy. Not so the dear 
wife : she declared she had never been so happy, that she had 
her Albert all to herself : wanted nothing more ; if she but 



A STORY OF CALAIS. 177 

knew how to requite W5, she would not wish the estates back 
ao"ain: — she would live where she was, forever. Then her husband 
would throw his arms around .her and call her by endearing 
names, which would make the little thing look so serious, but at 
the same time so calm and satisfied and angel-like, that it seemed 
as if the divine soul of the Holy Virgin had taken possession of 
her, as she turned her eyes up to her husband and met his, looking 
lovingly down. . . .' 

" Here Louis Herbois stopped, and felt for his handkerchief, and 
blew his nose until the walls resounded, and wiped his eyes as if 
trying to remove something that was in them, and proceeded — 

" ' Any one to have seen her at different times would have sworn 
I had two little women for guests instead of one : so full of fun 
and mischief and all sorts of pranks ; so hvely, running hither and 
yon, teasing me, amusing Agathe, rallying her husband ; but on 
the occasions I mention, so subdued, so thoughtful so — different 
from her other self : Ciel ! she had all our hearts. 

*' ' Several months passed, much in the same manner. The comte 
by degrees gained courage, and often ventured away from the 
house. 'Lwice he had been to the town, but his wife was in such 
terror during his absence, that he promised her he wi>uld not ven- 
ture again. He continued meanwhile moody and ill at ease : it 
would be madness to leave his place of concealment ; this he knew 
well enough ; still he could not bring himself to be patient. Do 
not think. Monsieur, that the Comte de Choissy failed to love his 
wife just as ever : that was not it at all, A man is a man the world 
about ; the comte felt as anybody would feel who finds himself 
rusting away like an old musket, which has been tossed aside into 
some miserable cock loft. I had seen the world and knew how it 
was with him. But what could be done ? In Paris things were 
getting worse and worse. At first we had le Cote Gauche ; les 
Montagnards ; les Jacobins: then came les Patriotes de' 93 ; and 
after that, les Patriotes par excellence, who were succeeded by les 
Patriofes plus patriotes que les patriotes : and then the devil was 
let loose in mad earnest ; for what with les Bonnets-Rouges, les 



178 A STORY OF CALAIS. 

Enrages^ les Terroristes^ les Buveurs de Sang and les Chevaliers 
du Poignard^ Paris was converted into a more fitting abode for 
Satan than his old fashioned country residence down below. Par- 
don^ Monsieur I I am getting warm ; but it always stirs my blood 
when I recall those days. I see, too, I am getting from my story. 
Well : I tried to comfort the comte with such scraps of philosophy 
as I had picked up in my campaigns — for in the army, you must 
know, one learns many a good maxim — but I did little by that. The 
sweet young comtesse was the only one who could make him cheer- 
ful, and smile, and laugh, and seem happy in a natural way, for he 
loved her as tenderly as a man ever loved ; besides, the comtesse 
had now a stronger claim than ever upon her husband. I fancy I 
can see her sitting ihere^ her face bent over, employing her needle 
upon certain diminutive articles, whose use it is very easy to un- 
derstand. Do you know, when she was at work on these^ that she 
was serious — never playful — always serious ; wearing the same ex- 
pression as when she received from her husband a tender word ? 
No : nothing could make her merry then. I used to sit and won- 
der how the self-same person could become so changed all in one 
minute. How the comte loved to look at her ! his eyesgwere upon 
her wherever she was ; not a word she spoke, not a step she took, 
not a motion of hers escaped him. Well, the time came at last, 
and by the blessing of God and the Holy Virgin, as beautiful a 
child as the world ever welcomed, was placed by my Agathe in the 
arms of the comtesse. Perhaps,' added Louis Herbois, in a lower 
voice, while speech seemed for the instant difficult, * perhaps I 
have remembered this the better because God willed it that we 
ourselves should be childless. When Agathe took the infant and 
laid it in the mother's bosom, the latter regarded it for a moment 
with an expression of intense fondness ; then, raising her eyes to 
her husband, who stood over her, she laughed for joy. 

" ' Mother and daughter prospered apace. The little girl became 
the pet of the house ; we all quarrelled for her ; but each had to 
submit in turn. How intelligent ! what speaking eyes ! what know- 
ing looks ! what innocently mischievous ways ! mother and child ! 



A STORY OF CALAIS. 179 

I wish you could have seen them. I soon marked a striking change : 
the young comtesse was now never herself a child. A gentle dig- 
nity distinguished her — new-born, "it would seem — but natural. I 
am making my story a long one, but I could talk to you the whole 
day in this way. So, the months passed on — and the revolution 
did not abate ; and the comte was sick at heart, and the comtesse 
was, as ever, cheerful, happy, content, and the little one could stand 
alone by a chair and call out to us all, wherever we were. The 
comte, notwithstanding his promise, could not resist his desire to 
learn more of what was going on than I could inform him. I 
seldom went away, for when hawks are abroad, it is well to 
look after the brood : and as I had nothing to gain, and everything 
to lose, by venturing out, I thought it best to stay at home. The 
comte, on the contrary, was anxious to know everything. He 
had made several visits to Calais, first obtaining his wife's con- 
sent, although the agony she suffered seemed to fill his heart 
with remorse ; this, however, was soon smothered by his renewed 
and unconquerable restlessness. One morning he was pleading 
with her for leave to go again, answering her expressions of 
fear with the fact that he had been often already without danger. 
" There is always a first time," said my Agathe, who was in the room. 
"And there is always a last time, too," said I, happening to enter at 
that moment. I did not know what they were talking about, and 
the words came out quite at random. The comtesse turned pale. 
" Albert," she said, " content yourself with your Victorine and our 
babe : go not away from us." The infant was standing by its moth- 
er's knee, and without understanding what was said, she repeated, 
" Papa — not go." The comte hesitated : " What a foreboding 
company — croakers every one of you — away with such presenti- 
ments of evil. Go I will, to show you how foolish you have all 
been ;" and with that he snatched a kiss from his wife and the lit- 
tle one, and started off. The former called to him twice, " Albert, 
Albert," and the baby in imitation, with its little voice said, 
" Papa, papa ;" but the comte did not hear those precious tones of 

wife and child, and in a few minutes he was out of sight. I can- 
16* 



180 A STORY OF CALAIS. 



not say what was the matter with me ; my spirit was troubled : 
the comtesse looked so desponding, and Agathe so triste, that I 
knew not what to do with myself. I did nothing for an hour, then 
I spoke to Agathe : " Wife, I am going across to the town." She said, 
" Ah, Louis, I almost wish you would go. See how the comtesse 
sufiers. I am sure I shall feel easier myself." Then I told her 
to say nothing of where I had gone, and away I went. It did not 
take me long, for it seemed as if I ought to hasten. I got into the 
town, and having walked along till I came to the Rue de Paris, I 
was about turning down it when I saw a small concourse of people 
on the opposite corner; I crossed over and beheld the Comte de 
Choissy in the custody of four gens d'armes, and surrounded by a 
number of "citizens." My first impulse was to rush to his assist- 
ance, but I reflected in time and contented myself with joining the 
crowd. One of the soldiers had gone for a carriage, and the re- 
mainder were questioning him ; the comte, however, would make 
no reply, except, " You have me prisoner, I have nothing to say, 
do what you will." I waited quietly for an opportunity of showing 
myself to him, but he did not look toward me. Presently I said 
to the man next me, "Neighbor, you crowd something too hard 
for good fellowship." The comte started a very little at the sound 
of my voice, but he did not immediately look up. Shortly he 
raised his head and fixed his eyes on me for an instant only, and 
then turned them upon others of the company with a look as indif- 
ferent as if he were a mere spectator. What a courageous dog ! 
by Heaven, he never changed an iota, nor showed the slightest pos- 
sible mark of recognition ; still, I knew well enough he did recog- 
nise me, but I got no sign of it, neither did he look towards me 
again. Soon the carriage came up and he was hurried in by the 
gens d'armes^ and off they drove ! I made some inquiries and 
found that the comte was known, and that they were taking him 
to Paris. It seems that he had been observed by a spy of the 
uncle during one of his visits to the town, and although he was not 
tracked to his home — for he was always very cautious in his move- 
ments — yet a strict watch was kept for his next appearance. I went 



A STORY OF CALAIS. 181 

to see the old domestic, but he knew not so much as I. My steps 
were next turned homeward. What a walk that was for me ! How 
could I enter my house the bearer of such tidings ! " Bon Dieu ! 
ah^ hon Dieu^'' 1 exclaimed, " ayez pitie /'' and I stopped under a 
hedge and got down on my knees and said a prayer, and then I 
began crying like a child. I said my prayer again, and walked 
slowly on ; then I saw the house and Agathe in the garden, and 
the comtesse with the little one standino; in the door — looking; — 
looking. I came up — "Albert — where is Albert? where is my 
husband?" I made no answer. " Tell me," she said, almost fierce- 
ly, taking hold of my arm. I opened my mouth and essayed to 
speak, but although my lips moved I did not get out a syllable. I 
thought I might whisper it, so I tried to do so, but I could not 
whisper ! The comtesse shrieked, the child began to cry, and Aga- 
the came running in. " Come with nie," said I to my wife, and I 
went into our chamber and told her the whole, and bid her go to 
the comtesse and tell the truth for I could not. My dear Agathe 
went out half dead. I sat still in my chamber ; presently the door 
opened and the comtesse stood on the threshold. Her eyes were 
lighted up with fire, her countenance was terribly agitated, her 
whole frame trembled : " And you are the wretch base enough to 
let him be carried oflF to be butchered before your eyes with- 
out liftijig voice or hand against it, without interposing one word- 
one look, one thought! Cowardly recreant !" she screamed, and 
fell back in the arms of ray wife in violent convulsions ; the infant 
looked on vi'ith wondering eyes, and followed us as we laid the 
comtesse on the bed, and then put her little hand on her mother's 
cheek and said, softly, " Mamma." In a few minutes the comtesse 
began to recover. She opened her eyes with an expression of in- 
tense pain, gave a glance at Agathe and me, and then observing 
her child, she took it and pressed it to her breast and sobbed. 
Shortly she spoke to me, and oh, w'ith what a mournful voice and 
look : " Louis, forgive me ; I said I knew not what ; I was beside 
myself You have never merited aught from me but gratitude ; 
will you forgive me ?" I cried as if I were a baby. Agathe too 



182 



A STORY OF CALAIS. 



went on so that I feared she could never be reconciled to the dread- 
ful calamity — for myself, I was well-nigh mad. I could but com- 
mend the comtesse to the Great God and hasten out of her siorht. 
Five wretched and wearisome days were spent. The character of 
the comtesse meantime displayed itself. Instead of sinking under 
the weight of this sorrowful event, she summoned resolution to en- 
dure it. She was de>iQted to her child ; she assumed a cheerful air 
when caressing it ; she even tried to busy herself in her ordinary 
occupations ; but I could not be deceived, I knew the iron had en- 
tered her soul. All these heroic signs were only evidences of what 
she really suffered. Did I not watch her closely ? and when the 
comtesse, folding her infant to her breast, raised her eyes to heaven 
as if in gratitude that it was left to her, I fancied there was an ex- 
pression which seemed to say, "Why were not all taken?" The 
little one, unconscious of its loss, would talk in intervals about 
" papa ;" and when the mother, pained by the innocent prattle, 
grew sad of countenance, the child would creep into her lap and 
putting its tiny fingers upon her eyes, her lips, and over her face, 
would say, " Am I not good, mamma ? I am not naughty ; I am 
good, mamma." Five days were passed in this way ; on the morn- 
ing of the sixth, we were startled by the comtesse, who, in manifest 
terror came to us holding her child, which was screaming as if suf- 
fering acute pain : its eyes were bloodshot and gleamed with an 
unnatural brilliancy, its pulse rapid, and head so hot that it almost 
burned me to feel of it. Presently it became quiet for a few min- 
utes, but soon the screams were renewed. Alas ! what could we 
do? Agathe and I tried everything that occurred to us, but to no 
purpose : the pains in the head became so intense that the poor 
thing would shriek as if some one was piercing her with a knife, 
then she would lay in a lethargy, and again start and scream until 
exhausted. Not for a moment did the comtesse allow her darling 
to be out of her arms. For two days and two nights she neither 
took rest nor food ; absorbed wholly in her child's sufferings, she 
would not for a moment be diverted from them. Agathe too 
watched night and day. On the third night the child appeared 




much easier, and the comtesse bade Agathe go and get some rest. 
She came and laid down for a little time and at last fell asleep ; 
when she awoke it was daylight •; she knocked at the door of the 
comtesse — all was still ; — she opened it and went in. The com- 
tesse, exhausted by long watching, had fallen asleep in her chair, 
with her little girl in her arms. The child had sunk into a dull 
lethargic state never to be broken. Alas ! Monsieur — alas ! the 
little one was dead ! Agathe ran and called me. I came in. What 
a spectacle! Which of us should arouse the un- 
happy comtesse ? or should we disturb her ? Were it not better 
gently to withdraw the dead child and leave the mother to her 
repose? We thought so. I stepped forward, but courage failed 
me. I did not dare furtively to abstract the precious burden from 
the jealous arms which even in slumber were clasped tightly around 

it. Oh ! my God ! While we were standing the comtesse 

opened her eyes : her first motion was to draw the child closer to 
her heart — then to look at us — then at the little one. She saw 
the whole. She had endured so much that this last stroke scarce- 
ly added to her wretchedness. She allowed me to take the child, 
and Agathe to conduct her to the couch and assist her upon it. 
She had held out to the point of absolute exhaustion, and when 
once she had yielded she was unable to recall her strength. She 
remained in her bed quite passive, while Agathe nursed her with- 
out intermission. I dug a little grave in the garden yonder, and 
Agathe and I laid the child in it. The mother shed no tears ; 
when from her bed she saw us carry it away she looked mournfully 
on, and as we went out she whispered, " Mes beaux jours sont 
passes. Soon the grave was filled up and flowers scattered 
over it, and we came back to the cottage. As I drew near her 
room I beheld the comtesse at the window, supporting herself 
by a chair, regarding the grave with an earnest longing gaze 
which I cannot bear to recall. As I passed, her eye met mine, 
— such a look of quiet enduring anguish, which combined in one 
expression a world of untold agonies I Oh ! I never could endure 
a second look like that. I rushed into the house : Agathe was 



184 



A STORY OF CALAIS. 



already in. I called to her to come to me for I could not enter 
that room again. " Wife," I said, " I am going to Paris. Do not 
say one word. God will protect us. Comfort the comtesse. Aga- 
the, if I never return, remember — it is on a holy errand — adieu." 
I was off before Agathe could reply. I ran till I came to the main 
road, there I was forced to sit down and rest. At last I saw a 
wagoner going forward ; part of the way I rode with him, and a 
part I found a faster conveyance. At night I walked by myself. 
I had a cousin in Paris, Maurice Herbois, with whom in old times 
I had been on companionable terms. He was a smith and had 
done w^ell at the trade until the revolution broke out, since then I 
had heard nothing from him. He was a shrewd fellow, and I 
thought he would be hkely to keep near the top of the wheel. But 
I had a perilous time after getting into Paris before I could find 
him. I learned as many of the canaille watch-words by heart as I 
could, I thought they would serve me if I was questioned ; but 
my dangers thickened, until I was at last laid hold of, for not giving 
satisfiictory answers, as un homme sans aveu, and was on the point 
of being conveyed to a maison d^arret, when I mentioned the name 
of Maurice Herbois as a person who could speak in my favor. 
" What," said one, " le Citoyen Herbois P " The very same." 
said I, "and little thanks will you get from him for slander- 
inof his cousin with a charo;e of incivisme.'^ There was a ffen- 
eral shout at this, and off we hurried to find Maurice. I 
had answered nothing of whence I came or where I was go- 
ing, which was the reason I had at length got into trouble. 
I knew Maurice to be a true fellow, revolution or no revolu- 
tion, and so held my peace till I should meet him. I found that 
he had been rapidly advanced by the tide of affairs which had set 
him forward whether he would or no. Indeed Maurice was no 
insignificant fellow at any rate. The noise of the men who carried 
me along, soon brought him out. I spoke first : " Maurice, my 
dear cousin, I am glad to find 'you ; but before we can shake 
hands, you must first certify my — loyalty," I was about to say, 
but bit my tongue, and got out — " civismer " My friends," said 



A STORY OF CALAIS. 185 

Maurice, " this is my cousin Louis Herbois, once a valiant soldier, 
now a brave and uncorruptible citoyen. He is trustworthy ; he 
comes to visit me ; I vouch for him." This was so satisfactory, 
that we were greeted with huzzas, and then I went in with Maurice. 
I need not tell you how much passed between us. In short, we 
talked till our tongues were tired. I found my cousin as I ex- 
pected as true as a piece of his own steel. He had been carried 
along, in spite of himself, in the course of revolution, and had be- 
come a great man as the best chance of saving his head. I told 
him my whole story, and the object of my visit. "A fruitless 
errand, Louis," said he ; "I know the case ; and where personal 
malice is added to the ordinary motive for prosecution, there is no 
escape. Poor fellow, I wish I could help him ; but the uncle, 
he is in power : ah 1 there is no help for it." Suddenly a new 
thought struck him. "Louis, did you come by the Hotel de 
Ville ?" " Yes." " What was going on ?" " I looked neither 
right nor left ; I don't know." " Well, what did you hear ?" " I 
heard a cry of Vive Tallien ! with strange noises, and shouts, and 
yells ; and somebody said that the National Guard were disband- 
ing, and had forsaken Robespierre ; and the people were surround- 
ing the Hotel de Ville." " Then, i)^e^^ mem, there is hope. You 
are in the nick of time ; let us out. If Robespierre falls, you may 
rescue the comte. He is in the Rue St. Martin ; in the same prison is 
Madame de Fontenay, the friend of Tallien, whom Robespierre has 
incarcerated. The former will proceed thither as soOn as Robe- 
spierre is disposed of, to free Madame; there will be confusion 
and much tumult. I know the keeper : I must be cautious ; but 
I will discover where the comte and the lady are secured. Then I 
will leave you with the jailor ; the crisis cannot be delayed another 
day. Wait till you hear them coming, then shout Vive Tallien ! 
run about, dance around like a crazy man — hasten the jailor to re- 
lease Madame, and do you manage to rescue the comte — then be 
off instantlj^J don't come here again ; strike into the country while 
the confusion prevails. Come ; let us go this minute." And I did 
go. I found Maurice's introduction potent with the keeper, and 



186 A STORY OF CALAIS. 

what was better, I found the keeper to be a companion in arms, who 
formerly belonged to the same company with me. We embraced ; we 
were like two brothers ; — nothing could have happened better. I 
learned from him all I cared to know. I staid hour after hour ; just 
as I was in despair at the delay, I heard the expected advance. I 
found my fellow-soldier understood what it meant. I began to shout 
Vive Tallien ! as loud as I could ciy. In a fit of enthusiasm I 
snatched the keys from the hands of the keeper, as if to liberate 
the lady, while my comrade opened the doors to the company. I 
hied first to the comte's room. In one instant the door was un- 
locked. " Quick !" I whispered ; " follow me — do as I do. Shout, 
huzza ; jump this way and that — but stick close to me." In another 
minute I had unbolted the door of Madame de Fontenay, making as 
much noise as I could get from my lungs — the comte keeping very 
good time to my music. So, while we were shouting Vive Tallien ! 
at the top of our voices, Tallien himself rushed in with a large party. 
I took the opportunity to gain the street, and without so much as 
thanking my comrade for his attentions, I glided into an unfrequent- 
ed lane, the comte at my heels ; and I did not stop, nor look around, 
nor speak, till I found myself under cover of an old wind-mill near 
St. Denis, where I used to play when I was a boy. There I came 
to a halt, and seizing the comte in my arms, I embraced him a 
thousand times. I took some provisions from ray pouch, which 
my cousin had provided, and bade him eat, for we should stand, in 
need of food. We then proceeded, avoiding the main road, and 
getting a ride whenever we could, but never wasting a moment — 
not a moment. I told the comte what had happened, and that he 
must hasten if he would see his wife alive. At last we came near 
our house. The comte could scarcely contain himself ; he ran be- 
fore me : I could not keep up with him. How my heart was filled 
with foreboding! — how I dreaded to come nearer!— but appre- 
hension was soon at an end. There was my httle cottage, and in 
the doorway, leaning for sup|3ort against the sid^ stood the 
comtesse, gazing on vacancy — the picture of despair ami desolation. 
At the sight of her husband, she threw out her hands and tried to 



A STORY OF CALAIS. 187 

advance : she was too feeble, and would have fallen had he not the 
same moment folded her in his arms. 

" ' Bien Monsieur /' continued Louis Herbois, after clearing his 
voice, * the worst of the story is told. The comtesse was gradually 
restored to health, and the comte was content to remain quietly with 
us till the stofti swept past; but the lady never recovered the 
bright spirits which she before displayed, and the comte himself 
could never speak of the little one whom he kissed for the last 
time on that fatal morning, without the deepest emotion. It seems 
to have been destined that this should be their only affliction. The 
uncle was beheaded in one of the sudden changes of parties the 
succeeding year, and in due time the comte regained his estates. 
Sons and daughters were born to them, and their family have 
grown up in unbroken numbers. The comte and comtesse can 
scarcely yet be called old, their health and vigor remain, and 
they enjoy still those blessings which kind Providence is pleased 
to bestow on the most favored. But the Comtesse de Choissy 
will never forget the child which lies there. Twice a year, ac- 
companied by the comte, she visits the cottage. She lays with 
her own hands fresh flowers over the little grave yonder, and waters 
the moss which overspreads it ; and the t^ars stand in her eyes 
when she looks upon the spot where we buried her first-horn. We 
have engaged that every morning we will renew the flowers, and 
preserve the mosses always green. It is a holy office consecrated 
by holy feehngs. Ah ! hfe is a strange business : we may not be 
always serious ; we cannot be always gay. God grant. Monsieur, 
that in Heaven we may all be happy !' 

" I have given you the whole story," said Mr. Belcher, after a 

short pause ; " but look, the sun is out ; let us go to the Courtgain." 
16 



188 MY GARDEN. 



MY GARDEN. 



;Y MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY. 



• 



Oh, what a world of beauty lies within 

The narrow space on wliicli mine eye now rests ! 

And yet how cold and truthless seem the words 

That fain would picture to another's sense 

Those tall, dark trees, whose young fresh-budden leaves 

Give out their music to the summer wind ; 

Or that green turf, with golden drops besprent, 

As if Aurora, bending down to gaze 

On scene so lovely, from her saffron crown 

Had dropped some blossoms, as she sped along. 

What joyous language could be found to paint 

Yon vine, with its Hthe tendrils dancing wild. 

As if inebriate with th' inspiring blood 

That courses through its old and sturdy heart ? 

What rainbow-colored words could sketch the flowers, 

Which through the copse-like leafiness gleam out ? 

First in her beauty stands the festal rose, • 

Wearing with stately pride Night's dewy pearls 

Y'et fresh upon her brow, as if to show 

That none might woo her save the Evening Star, 

Y'et, e'en now, hiding in her heart of hearts 

The bee that lives on sweetness. 

At her feet. 
With eye scarce hfted from earth's mossy bed, 
The pansy wears her purple robe and crown 
As modestly as a young maiden queen. 
Abashed at her own state. 



The hoyden pink, 
(Like some wild beauty, scorning fashion's garb,) 
In her exuberant lovehness, breaks forth 
From the green boddice by dame Nature laced. 
And bares her fragrant bosom to the winds. 
The honeysuckle, climbing high in air, 
Swings his perfumed censer toward Heaven, 
Giving out incense such as never breathed 
From gemmed and golden chahce, or carved urn 
In dim cathedral isles. 

All things around 
Are redolent of sweetness and of beauty, 
And as beside the casement I recline, 
Prisoned by sickness to the couch of pain, 
Their mingled odors to my senses come. 
Like the spice-scented breath of Indian isles 
To the sick sailor, who 'mid watery wastes 
Pines for one glimpse of the green earth again, 
And sees the cheating calenture arise 
To mock his yearning dreams. 

Yet thus to lie 
With such a glimpse of Eden spread before me, 
And such a blue and lucid sky above, 
As might have stretched its interposing veil 
'Twixt sinless man and Heaven's refulgent host. 
When Heaven seemed nearer to the earth than now, 
And the Almighty talked amid the trees 
With his last, best creation ; — thus to lie 
E'en though in bondage to bewildering pain, 
And fettered by unnerving feebleness. 
To one small spot, is happiness so much 
Beyond my poor deservings, that each breath 
Goes forth like a thanksgiving from my lips. 



190 MY GARDEN. 



Havk ! merry voices now are on the breeze, 
While glad young faces smile from leafy screens, 
And where the arrowy sunbeams pierce their way, 
Like random shafts sent mid the clustering boughs, 
The sheen of snowy robes is gleaming out, — 
Thus by her own pure brightness I can trace 
The flitting footsteps of that blessed One, 
Who to my glad youth like an angel came, 
Folded her pinions in my happy home 
And called me — " Mother !" 

To my o'erfr aught soul 
These images of all my home-joys come 
Like rose-leaves strewn upon a brimming cup, 
And in its very fulness of content 
My heart grows calm, while every pulse is hushed 
With a mo.«t tremulous stillness. 



SONG. 

FROM THE VISION OF THE GOBLET: AN UNFINISHED POEM. 
BY GEORGE H. BOKEE. 

Joy, joy ! with Bacchus and his satyr train, 
In triumph throbs our merry Grecian earth ; 

Joy, joy ! the golden time has come again, 
A god shall bless the vine's illustrious birth ; 
lo, io, Bacche ! 

\j ureezes, speed across the mellow lands, 
And breathe his coming to the joyous vine ; 

Let all the vineyards wave their leafy hands 
Upon the hills to greet this pomp divine : 
Io, io, Bacche ! 

peaceful triumph, victory without tear. 
Or human cry, or drop of conquered blood ! 

Save dew-beads bright, that on the vine appear, 
The choral shouts, the trampled grape's red flood : 
Io, io, Bacche ! 

Shout, Hellas, shout ! the lord of joy is come, 

Bearing the mortal Lethe in his hands. 
To make the wailing lips of sorrow dumb, 

To bind sad Memory's eyes with rosy bands : 
Io, io, Bacche ! 

Shout, Hellas, shout ! he bears the soul of love, 
Within each glowing drop Promethean fire ; 

The coldest maids beneath its power shall move, 

And bashful youths be bold with hot desire : 

Io, io, Bacche ! 
16* 



Long may the ivy deck thy sculptured brows, 
Long may the goat upon thy altars bleed, 

Long may thy temples hear our tuneful vows 
Chiming accordant to the vocal reed : 
lo, io, Bacche ! 

Long may the hills and nodding forests move, 
Responsive echoing thy festal drum, 

Grief-scattering Bacchus, twice-born son of Jove- 
Our hearts are singing, let our hps be dumb : 
Io io Bacche ! 



~.=iJ 



ELINOR WILMOT— OR THE IDEAL. 193 



ELINOR WILMOT: OR THE IDEAL. 

BY MISS LOUISE OLIVIA HUNTER. 

" Lo, many a soul o'er Life's drear dessert faring, 

Love's pure, congenial spring unfound, unquaffed — 
Suffers, recoils, then, thirsty and despairing 
Of what it would, descends and sips the nearest draught." 

IMaria Bkooks. 

" For heaven's sake, Elinor, what is it that you expect ? One 
would be almost led to believe that you had the whole world at 
your disposal. Do you not know that you are neither beautiful 
nor wealthy — and that in case of my death you might be left de- 
pendant upon your own exertions for support ? And yet you 
refuse a man like this ! Oh, I have no longer any patience with 
your whims !" 

And Maurice Wilraot left the house without deigning to bid 
good-morning to his sister. Tears had frequently arisen to Elinor's 
eyes during the earnest conversation which had passed between 
them, and as the last faint echo of her brother's departing foot- 
steps receded, she threw herself upon the sofa, and allowing her 
hitherto pent-up feelings to give way, wept long and bitterly. To 
a sensitive and affectionate heart like hers, it was a source of much 
pain that she was obliged to thwart her brother's wishes. And 
there were circumstances also which made it seem almost like a 
crime to her, that it was not in her power to grant the first earnest 
request Maurice had ever proffered. 

Elinor Wilmot was the daughter of a poor but respectable phy- 
sician of the city of Boston. Her father died when she was not 
more than ten years old, and his wife surviving him scarcely a year, 
the little Elinor became an orphan, dependant upon her brother, 
her only relative, who was some fifteen years her senior. This 
brother having at an early age been placed in the counting house 



194 



ELINOR WILMOT— OR THE IDEAL. 



of a wealthy merchant, had, by his habits of steadiness, and perse- 
vering industry, ingratiated himself into the good opinion of his 
employers, and rendered himself so necessary to the concern, that a 
few weeks preceding the decease of his father, he had been ad- 
mitted to a partnership ; and Maurice Wilmot had, therefore, fairer 
worldly prospects than his parents had ever known themselves, or 
hoped for for him. 

When their dying mother committed his httle sister to his care, 
bidding him watch over her and guard her from all evil, Maurice 
promised that while he lived she should never need protection. 
And he was faithful to the trust. Elinor was immediately placed 
in a home far more luxuriant than that which had formerly been 
hers — and through the years that intervened between her parent's 
death and her arrival at womanhood, both care and cost was be- 
stowed upon her education, and naught was left undone that could 
minister to her comfort. 

Before she had reached her twentieth year, Elinor, though by no 
means beautiful — nay, comparatively plain in person, had succes- 
sively refused her hand to three of Maurice's most opulent brother 
merchants, who had chanced to become acquainted with her while 
dining with Maurice Wilmot, at his dwelling. One of these gentle- 
men was a Mr. Stuart, her brother's most intimate friend, and a 
personage whom he esteemed every way worthy of his sister, for 
he was not above thirty years of age, amiable, of prepossessing 
exterior, and one of fortune's most favored children. Why Elinor 
should be so fastidious, Maurice could not conjecture, and on the 
day when she declined receiving Mr. Stuart's addresses — the day 
on which my story begins — for the first time in his life, Maurice 
Wilmot had looked coldly upon his sister. 

Elinor had always been passionately devoted to books and study, 
and any one who had beheld her bending, as she frequently did, 
over her favorite volumes long after midnight, and drinking in with 
avidity the glowing language of genius, would scarcely have won- 
dered that she should have declined becoming the wife of one 
whose tastes bore no sympathy to hers. It was a particular matter 



of marvel to lier brother that she should prefer the seclusion in 
which they dwelt to mingling with the gay circles into which he 
fain would have persuaded her to" enter. But Elinor lived in a 
world of her own — while of that inner life — that world so full of 
truth and teiltierness to its earnest votaries. Maurice Wilmot had 
no conception — and his sister, with not the slightest expectation of 
sympathy, never suffered her own peculiar feelings to escape her 
lips. She locked them within the deepest recesses of her own 
heart, hoping that the time would eventually arrive when they 
might be called forth and reciprocated by a kindred mind. 

The dreams of Maurice Wilmot were solely of wealth and 
luxury — of the accumulation of sufficient wherewith to surround 
his household with the appliances of bodily comfort. And this 
constituted his principal idea of happiness. No vision of sj^iritual 
needs had ever crossed his earth-fettered mind — and thus it was 
that he looked with such amazement upon Elinor's rejection of one 
who could have placed her at once in what he regarded as a posi- 
tion truly enviable. 

Yet despite his feelings of chagrin, when Maurice returned home 
and met the tearful, pleading gaze of his sister, on the eveniag of 
the day which bore the unfavorable tidings to his friend, his resolve 
of continued sternness failed him, and hastily kissing her cheek, he 
said, " I shall not soon forget what a disappointment you have 
caused me — but be an old maid if you will, Elinor !" 



Time passed away, and Elinor Wilmot had attained her twenty- 
fifth birthday. Those five years had brought many changes to her 
brother's household. Several successful speculations had placed 
the wealth he so eagerly coveted within his possession, and to 
crown his happiness he had brought a wife to his home — a gay, 
beautiful, girlish creature, whose merry laughter now joyously re- 
sounded within the hitherto quiet dwelling. Elinor had welcomed 
the thought of a sister-in-law with undisguised pleasure. How, 
indeed, could she be otherwise than glad-hearted at anything that 
might contribute towards making her brother happy ? Therefore, 



196 ELINOR WILMOT— OR THE IDEAL. 

wlien Maurice Wilmot introduced his lovely wife to his gentle 
sister, it was not to be wondered at that Elinor should greet that 
fair child-like being with words of tenderness, and that from the mere 
thought that the new comer was very dear to the kind brother to 
whom she owed so much, she was ready to regard«her as a sun- 
beam upon the life-path of each. 

But what an alteration in her feelings towards the young Mrs. 
Wilmot did a few short months effect ! Beneath an exterior of 
simplicity and guilelessness, Elinor saw with wonder and sorrow, 
could be concealed a selfish and exacting spirit, that scrupled not 
to use any means, however painful to others, for the accomplish- 
ment of its own ends. To many a petty and cunning manoeuvre 
did her sister-in-law resort whenever it suited her purpose to do so 
— and the frank, pure-souled Elinor, too frequently heard herself 
scornfully designated as an old maid, because she refused to become 
a party to the artfulness from which her mind shrank with unfeigned 
repugnance. For awhile Elinor had endeavored to accustom her- 
self to what she tried to consider as the eccentricities of her 
brother's wafe — she had humored her fancies as she would those of 
a petted child, looking upon her as little more than such. But the 
veil which affection strove to cast over faults so glaring was rent 
very soon. It became easily perceivable to Elinor that the love of 
power was Mrs. Wilmot's ruHng passion, and that she was by no 
means deficient in strength of mind, as she had sought to believe. 
As long as Elinor bent her will to that of Mrs. Wilmot all Went 
smoothly enough between them, but when at length her new sister 
Josephine's character became fully revealed to her, her soul re- 
volted at the thought of longer acknowledging the sway to which 
in the bhndness of prejudiced partiahty she had hitherto yielded. 
The constant and expressed difference in their sentiments was now 
daily forming a wider breach between the two — for though Elinor 
with natural dehcacy would fain have avoided all contention, Jose- 
phine, on every occasion, seemed to take peculiar delight in obliging 
the former to avow her opinions — artfully drawing her into contro- 
versies, which invariably ended in mutual coldness. Oh, what 



ELINOR WILMOT— OR THE IDEAL. 197 

would not Elinor have given had her sister been otherwise than as 
she was — could she sometimes in her saddened moments have 
rested her weary head upon her sister's bosom, and received from 
her, if nothing more, at least the sisterly affection which she so 
needed ! 

For the first time, Elinor was now taught to feel herself a de- 
pendent in the home where from childhood she had been a cher- 
ished inmate — and her proud spirit writhed beneath the taunt 
which, during a moment of passionate excitement, fell from the 
lips of Mrs. Wilmot. Following the voice of impulse, Elinor would 
that day have quitted forever the roof that ha,d so long sheltered 
her — she would have endeavored henceforth to support herself — 
but then came the thought of the pain which such a proceeding 
would give her kind and generous brother. She reflected that he 
knew nothing of the difficulties existing between his wife and her- 
self, for it had always been her care to hide from him a knowledge 
which could only be productive of anxiety, and create in his breast 
feelings of resentment towards Josephine. And should she leave 
his dwelling, she could not possibly avoid giving him an explana- 
tion of the motives by which she was actuated. 

Mrs. "Wilmot had no sooner uttered the rude and thoujjhtless 
sentence that stung so deeply the sensitive heart to which it was 
addressed, than she bitterly repented allowing it to escape her, for 
she read in her sister's changing countenance signs of the mighty 
struggle that was going on Avithin her mind. She knew enough 
of her companion's nature to be well assured that no wound could 
have been felt more acutely than that which had just been in- 
flicted upon her, and she feared lest her words should drive Elinor 
to extremities, and the extent of her unkindness thereby be ex- 
posed to her husband. She was well aware that Elinor need never 
be at a loss for a maintenance — that her education would at any 
time secure her a support — but of the powers of her mind it was 
by no means Josephine's wish that her sister-in-law should avail 
herself. Mrs. Wilmot had no relish for Elinor's society, for she 
was jealous of the latter's influence over Maurice — of the deference 



198 ELINOR WILMOT— OR THE IDEAL. 

wliicli the brother still paid to his sister's opinions in many small 
matters. Still, the thought of her husband's sister earning her 
daily bread, was very distasteful to the haughty spirit of Josephine 
— for she was no believer in the nobihty of toil, but rather one of 
those who look with skeptical contempt upon the glorious assurance 
that 

" Labor — all labor is noble and holy." 

But her purpose in rendering EHnor's home so intolerable had 
really been to force her to seek another — not one to which she 
might earn a claim by the labor which the proud lady considered 
so degrading — but a home in a stately mansion, which should be- 
come legally hers by her union with its master ! Elinor's former 
admirer, Mr. Stuart, was still a bachelor. Since Maurice's mar- 
riage he had been a frequent visitor at the house, and though EH- 
nor's feelings towards him had not undergone the slightest change, 
she invariably treated him in a friendly manner, never dreaming 
that he now desired or hoped for a warmer regard. But Mrs. 
Wilmot was wiser on this subject than her sister. She knew that 
Mr. Stuart was still devoted to EHnor, and was well assured that 
he waited for an alteration in her sentiments, and that he would 
never marry while Elinor's remaining single gave him room to 
hope. But no hint of this kind was ever breathed by Josephine 
Wilmot to her sister. She was too wily for that — for she knew 
that it would put Elinor on her guard, and instantly check/ that 
friendliness with which she demeaned herself to Mr. Stuart. But 
now by a hasty sentence of her own, Mrs. Wilmot's cherished plan 
seemed in a fair way of being foiled — and not merely this, but she 
dreaded lest her husband should learn how unkindly she had con- 
ducted herself towards his beloved sister 1 

Some act of atonement was evidently necessary to pacify the 
heart she had wounded, and therefore throwing her arms around 
Elinor with tears of affected penitence, she besought her pardon 
for the words she had spoken. ' But Elinor Wilmot had penetra- 
tion enough to know that selfish fears alone had prompted the 
readily offered apology, and that in the thoughts of her brother's 



ELINOR WILMOT— OR THE IDEAL. 199 

wife, she was really an unwelcome intruder in the family group. 
So coldly unclasping the soft, white arms that encircled her with 
such apparent affection, she said. — " I forgive you, Josephine. I 
understand the motives by which you have been governed in re- 
tracting your cruel and insulting words. Yet, however repugnant 
it will henceforth be to my feelings to remain in my present abode, 
I must force myself to endure the pain rather than cause unhappi- 
ness to my brother ; for I would rather sacrifice my life than give 
him reason to grieve.'' Her voice faltered as she concluded, and 
hastily turning from her sister-in-law, she quitted the apartment. 

Oh ! what a relief was that brief reply to Josephine Wilmot. 
Not a moment paused she to reflect that her embrace had been 
rejected, or upon the reproof which had been awarded her. There 
was still hope — nay, there was more hope than she had ever before 
anticipated for the accomplishment of her favorite project. She 
knew that she had that day planted a dagger in her sister's heart — 
that the thought of being a dependent would thenceforth prove a 
constant source of bitterness to her spirit — such bitterness as it 
were impossible Elinor should long endure. But she had volun- 
tarily resigned her only means of independence — and there was now 
but one resort for that proud and sensitive spirit. So gladness for 
her hasty speech took the place of regret in the sordid heart of 
Josephine Wilmot — for by that very speech she now perceived 
that the end she so earnestly desired might be eventually at- 
tained ! 

Meanwhile, Elinor had gained her own little room, and there she 
might have been seen seated beside the table, near which she so 
often stationed herself while perusing her favorite volumes. But 
she noticed not now those well-loved books — she sought not as was 
her wont, those dear companions and faithful soothers of her soli- 
tary hours. The fever-flush of excitement glowed upon her usual- 
ly pale cheek — while her weary head was bowed, and her hands 
clasped together in an agony of grief. A shadow upon the hearth 
of her childhood's home, there was no earthly hope for her in the 
dark, dread Future — and the lonely, passionate heart that yearned 



200 ELINOR WILMOT— OR THE IDEAL. 

so for love and sympathy, grew almost wild with despair at the 
prospect of utter desolation which that Future presented. The full 
sense of the isolation in which she had always lived, came upon her 
now with overwhelming force — and for the first time she mourned 
over the faded years of her life, and suffered her emotion to give 
way at the belief that the coming years would bring no change. 
Bitter, hopeless teai-s were those she now shed as she thought 

" I know there are in this rude world 

Who share these dreams of pare delight, 
But fate has parted from my path 
The few who'd read my heart aright." 

That evening Mr. Stuart called, and either by accident or by 
manoeuvre on the part of Mrs. Wilmot, Elinor was left alone to 
entertain him. Then it was that the once rejected suitor, for the 
first time in many years, alluded to the love he still cherished for the 
pale and trembling being who sat beside him — then it was that for 
the first time his fervent pleadings and professions stole gratefully 
to the thirsting heart of Elinor Wilmot — and as she contrasted the 
impassioned tones of that voice with the cold accents and taunting 
language to which she had listened a few hours previously, her 
wonted strength forsook her, and she yielded to the conviction that 
in the affection so eagerly proffered lay her only chance of earthly 
happiness. The misguided belief of that moment sealed her des- 
tiny for life. Yes, Elinor Wilmot became unfaithful to her Ideal 
— for when she parted that evening from Mr. Stuart, it was as his 
betrothed wife ! 



For some days after the scenes just described, Ehnor tried to 
stifle reflection to persuade herself that she was and ought to be 
entirely happy. But the upbraidings of her soul grew more and 
more plaintive — the voice of conscience at last gained a hearing, 
and Elinor Wilmot wept tears of despair over the thought of her 
approaching union with one so widely different from the being 
whom imagination had often pictured as her partner in life's joys 
and sorrows. There was yet time to have recalled the promise 



ELINOR WILMOT— OR THE IDEAL. 201 

given in an hour of utter recklessness — but then came the memory 
of her sister-in-law's mocking words — and of her brother's disap- 
pointment whose joy at her engagement to his friend, had been 
rapturous in the extreme — and she determined that the sacrifice 
should be made. 

Scarcely a month afterwards, Elinor Wilmot stood at the altar 
as the wife of Wallace Stuart. Pallid was the face of the bride as 
the benediction was pronounced by the solemn tones of the minis- 
ter — for the gloom of the grave was within her heart. The only 
feeling of gratification which she experienced, was when Maurice 
clasped that cold and trembling hand within his, and breathed his 
blessing upon her future way. From Josephine's congratulations 
she shrank with disgust, yet she was forced to listen with the 
appearance of pleasure. Many amid the throng that filled the 
church where the ceremony was performed, envied the fate of the 
bride, surrounded as she would be by worldly splendor. Ah ! Httle 
imagined they how willingly she would have rehnquished the vain 
pageantry which must be but a mockery to her aching heart, could 
she thereby have purchased the freedom of the past. 

Henceforth the name of Mrs. Stuart became well known in the 
world of fashion. The numerous parties and fetes at which agree- 
ably to her husband's desire she forced herself to preside, became 
at once the envy and admiration of the glittering multitude by 
whom they were attended. In the bustle and excitement of the 
society which she had once so studiously avoided, Elinor tried to 
forget her once cherished dreams — but there were times when the 
still small voice within her soul would be heard — when her 
thoughts wandered far distant to a pleasant little room which she 
had deserted, and to the friendly faces that were wont to smile upon 
her through the glass doors of a well filled book-case : and that 
chamber which in an hour of despairing anguish had seemed so 
desolate, now rose to her longing imagination as a vision of happi- 
ness never to be regained, while she would ask herself could it 
have been possible for her there to have experienced such an acute 
sense of loneliness, as that which stole over her spirits while acting 



202 ELINOR WILMOT— OR THE IDEAL. 

the part of hostess to a brilliant but heartless throng, whose pro- 
fessions of friendship were so different from those to which she 
pined to listen. 



About three years after Elinor's marriage, business of an import- 
ant nature rendered it expedient that Mr. Stuart should immediate- 
ly visit Europe. He would fain have been accompanied by his 
wife, as he intended to be absent more than a year — but just about 
the time when he was obliged to go, Mrs. Stuart was slowly recov- 
ering from a nervous fever which had left her in such an enfeebled 
condition that the physician declared that if she attempted a sea- 
voyage it would be at the risk of her life. And deeply as he 
regretted the alternative, her husband was obliged to consent to her 
remaining at home. 

As had been settled previous to Mr. Stuart's departure, during 
his stay abroad, Elinor gave up house-keeping and resided with a 
family whose attentions to her during her recent illness, had elicit- 
ed both her gratitude and affection. The Warners were distant 
relatives of Josephine Wilmot's, but persons of a decidedly oppo- 
site tone of character. Their household at the period when Elinor 
took up her abode with them, consisted merely of a mother and 
two daughters. They were refined, gentle-hearted, and unworldly 
people, who saw little of society and cared still less for its allure- 
ments ; and while with them EHnor enjoyed the repose so neces- 
sary to her worn and wearied spirit. The young sisters Annie 
and Lucy Warner, had become tenderly attached to her, and did 
all in their power to render her sojourn with them a pleasant one : 
and Elinor rejoiced in their love, and was as happy as it was possi- 
ble for her to be. 

One morning, scarcely six weeks after Mr. Stuart's departure, 
Lucy Warner entered Elinor's apartment with an open letter in her 
hand, and her fair face glowed with delight as she informed her 
friend that it was from her only brother, and announced his inten 
tion of returning in a few days to his home, from which he had 
been absent nearly two years. Allan Warner had latterly resided 



ELINOR WILMOT— OR THE IDEAL. 203 

among some relatives in the state of Georgia. His health becom- 
ing delicate, the physician had advised him to seek a southern 
climate, and there he had deemed it best to linger until his consti- 
tution was, as he beheved, completely renovated. EHnor had never 
beheld this dear brother of whom Annie and Lucy Warner so often 
talked for hours, but she had always listened to their conversations 
about him with a strange interest, and when latterly they had read 
to her his letters, brilliant in thought as in affection, she could not 
but feel that he was one of those of whom she would fain have 
had her world composed. Allan Warner was both a poet and an 
artist — but he could not be regarded as either in a professional 
light. The world knew him not as such, nor was he ambitious 
that it should. It will scarcely be wondered at, that with the con- 
ception of his character gleaned from Allan's letters, and from the 
praises of those who loved him, EHnor Stuart should rejoice with 
his family at the promise of so welcome an addition to their httle 
circle. And when at last Allan Warner came, and Elinor's gaze 
rested upon that open, manly, and intellectual countenance — and 
she saw day by day, how lovingly those fine, dark eyes followed 
the forms of his mother and sisters as they glided about him, she 
wondered that they were not even prouder and happier in the 
affection of such a being. 

For some days Allan Warner's manner towards Mrs. Stuart was 
polite but distant — and her demeanor was equally cold, while she 
felt pained and surprised that he should avoid cultivating a nearer 
acquaintance with her. But gradually the constraint of each wore 
off — and perhaps both were surprised to find themselves upon a 
very friendly footing a few hours after that in which the ice of their 
reserve was broken. A book in which they happened to be mutu- 
ally interested, was the medium of an acquaintance which was 
destined to end but in misery to each. Day by day they uncon- 
sciously found pleasure in discovering how entiiiely their tastes 
coincided ; and while Allan read to her from the authors whom 
they both loved so well, Elinor drank in the softened tones of that 

musical voice with a thrill of delight such as she had never before 
17* 



known. Meanwhile, his mother and sisters were happy in the 
thought of the newly-awakened friendship, little dreaming that a 
deeper sentiment might arise between two beings who were so well 
calculated to appreciate one another. 

The year allotted to Mr. Stuart's sojourn abroad had nearly ex- 
pired, and in a communication to his wife, he named the period 
when she might expect him home, requesting her to resume her 
station in her own mansion, and have all things in order there by 
his return. He alluded also, in rapturous ternis, to the happy 
moment which should mark his re-union with the beloved wife 
from whom he had been so long parted. And what were Elinor's 
feelings as she read ? Remorse — bitter, poignant remorse filled her 
soul — for his joyous picture of their meeting after that long separa- 
tion woke no responsive echo in her bosom. No — all there was 
coldness — coldness for the husband who idolized her — coldness far 
greater even than that with which she had regarded him on the 
morning of her ill-starred bridal ! But there ivas one at whose 
footstep her heart bounded with delight while she sought in vain 
to check its tumultuous throbbings — there was one to whose words 
of affection she could have listened and replied with impassioned 
eagerness, had not honor schooled his lips to silence, and duty and 
honor forced her to maintain a demeanor which fully concealed all 
that she felt. Ehnor Stuart had at last met the Ideal of her early 
dreams — but it was too late for the language of recognition ! She 
knew by a thousand little incidents of their daily intercourse, that 
Allan Warner loved her — though he deemed not that she divined 
the secret whose burden day by day sent an increasing pallor to his 
cheek : still less did he imagine that she whom he so madly wor- 
shipped — she, the wedded wife of another, for his sake turned des- 
pairingly from the thought of her husband's return. Allan War- 
ner would have died rather than breathed the lightest hint of his 
attachment to iier who was the object of it. 

And now Elinor knew that she must once more resume her for- 
mer life, and she delayed not a moment in making the desired pre- 
paraiions. She felt that the sooner she was removed from the 



ELINOR WILMOT— OR THE IDEAL. 205 

influence of Allan Warner's presence, the better it would be for 
both — for she saw with the deepest concern that a change had lat- 
terly come over him — and that. he was too often pale, silent, and 
dispirited. His family, too, marked with grief, the alteration in his 
appearance and manners, and when at last the hollow cough, which 
in former days had alarmed them, re-appeared, they thought it 
quite time to suggest some project for the restoration of his evi- 
dently faihng health. The idea of a tour through the south of 
Europe presented itself to their minds as the plan which might 
produce the happiest results, and when it was proposed to Allan, 
they found no difficulty in persuading him to undertake it. It had 
long been his desire to visit Italy — for his artist-soul had experienc- 
ed the natural yearning to become familiar with those rare works 
of the Old Masters. He only stipulated that he should be accom- 
panied by his mother and sisters, and to this proposition they were 
by no means loth to consent. Indeed, from the first it had not 
been his mother's intention to have suffered him to travel so far 
without her. Her affectionate heart could not well have borne the 
thought that her darling son should proceed alone to a foreign 
land — and she knew that should his health grow more feeble in- 
stead of becoming firmly re-estabhshed, as the young and hopeful 
hearts of Annie and Lucy predicted, Allan would feel far happier 
to have his bed of sickness, may be of death, surrounded by those 
who were nearest and dearest to him. And so it was finally 
agreed upon that they should commence their journey as soon as 
possible after the period when their friend, Mrs. Stuart, should have 
completed her arrangements for resuming house-keeping. 

Just one week previous to the time appointed for her husband's 
return, Elinor Stuart bade adieu to the friends whom she had 
learned to love so well ; and as she caught that last glimpse of the 
noble vessel which bore from her sight those whom she prized 
above all others upon earth, she turned away towards her home 
with a dee!f)er sense of desolation than she had ever before known. 
And then rose to view a vision of the happiness that might have 
been hers, had she but possessed strength to have risen above 



206 ELINOR WILMOT— OR THE IDEAL. 

temptation. The conviction that had she but endured the trials 
by which she was encompassed, and remained unmarried for three 
years longer, she might now have been the wife of Allan Warner, 
gleamed tauntingly upon her soul. She mourned over her error 
when it was too late for repentance, and when that very repent- 
ance was a source of self-reproach — for there was a stately ship now 
hastening towards the port that contained one to whom her image 
was the beacon — one whom she could only welcome with a feigned 
gladness, though to him she was bound by ties indissoluble. And 
a few days afterwards, Mr. Stuart arrived. I will not attempt to 
describe his meeting with his wife. Suffice it to say that Elinor's 
bearing towards him, gave her husband no cause to suspect her 
real feehngs. But, oh, how she hated herself for the falsehood 
which, but for her own weakness, she had never been obliged to 
maintain ! 



Though it had been settled between Elinor and her young friends, 
Annie and Lucy Warner, that they should keep up a constant cor- 
respondence, several months passed away and she had not received 
from them the slightest token of remembrance. But at last, one 
morning, when she was sitting alone in her dressing-room, a letter 
was brought to her, bearing a foreign postmark. It was sealed 
with black ! and with a trembling hand Mrs. Stuart broke the seal. 
But she had not read many hues ere a deathly paleness stole over 
her cheek — her eyes closed — and she sank upon the floor in a state 
of insensibility. 

When she recovered consciousness, she was still alone in her own 
apartment. No friendly spijit had ministered to her re-awakening 
from that lengthened swoon — and indeed it was best that no one 
had been a witness of the scene. And now Elinor again stretched 
forth her feeble hand for that letter — the letter from Annie War- 
ner containing the tidings of her brother's death ! — and as her gaze 
rested upon that familiar tracery, her head was bowed, and her 
whole frame convulsed with agony, which tears came not to relieve. 
Annie Warner reproached her friend for her long silence — stating 



ELUSrOR WILMOT— OR THE IDEAL. 207 

that both Lucy and herself had written repeatedly, but had never 
gained an answer to any of their communications. Her present 
epistle was written in a very mournful strain, for it was chiefly con- 
cerning the decease of her beloved brother. She said that, during 
the first few days of their stay at Rome, whence her letter was 
dated, Allan's health had seemed in a fair way of improving — but 
by an injudicious exertion, he caused the rupture of a blood-vessel, 
and was immediately precipitated upon the bed of sickness. Du- 
ring the five months intervening between this sad occurrence and 
his death, Allan Warner never once left his apartment, and conse- 
quently saw nothing of Italian glories, save the cloudless, sunny 
sky, to which his eyes were often uplifted with a rapturous expres- 
sion, which was interpreted by those around him into an anticipa- 
tion of the time when, with renovated strength, he should roam 
over the beautiful land beneath it. But they were soon undeceived 
in this belief — for when one day his mother had observed him gaz- 
ing thus toward the deep blue heavens, she spoke to him words of 
encouragement, and gave utterance to the hope that he would soon 
be strong enough to walk out with her. He replied that it was 
hoping against hope, as he was confident that his death-day was 
rapidly drawing near. And from that hour they knew that his 
dreams were no longer of Italy and its allurements — but rather 
of a still more radiant clime heyond those fair blue skies ! 

And Annie stated that a few hours before he died, her brother 
had entrusted to her care a letter, which she had enclosed within 
the same envelope with her own, and which he had desired might 
be delivered to Mrs. Stuart when he was no more. He had latterly 
employed every moment, when he was able to sit up, in inditing 
farewell epistles to those whose friendship he had prized, and whom 
he might never again behold ; and Annie said that, as Allan had 
often dwelt gratefully upon the recollection of Elinor's unvarying 
kindness to him, she doubted not but that he wished to leave her a 
written memorial of his gratitude. She concluded by informing 
Mrs. Stuart that they hoped to arrive in New York almost as soon 



208 ELmOR WILMOT— OR THE IDEAL. 

as the letter which would bear to her the tidings that Allan was 
numbered with the dead. 

And next, with a wildly throbbing heart, Ehnor Stuart unsealed 
the letter to which Annie had alluded — and in the direction of 
which, she recognised the handwriting of Allan AVarner — and as 
her eye glanced over its pages, from time to time she would lean 
back gaspingly in her seat — apparently unable to proceed — for it 
contained a confession of the love Allan had cherished for her. 
He traced the whole history of their acquaintance and its effect 
upon himself — from the time when, regarding her merely as a lady 
of wealth and fashion, he had avoided her society, to the period 
when the similarity of their tastes had struck him with surprise 
and pleasure — and thence through the many hours they had spent 
together, whose memory must cling to him while he lived. He 
said that he could not die happily without craving her pardon for 
having dared to love her — that however much he had erred in 
worshipping the wife of another, he felt certain of Mrs. Stuart's 
forgiveness when she should become aware that it was the con- 
sciousness of his error that weighed so heavily upon him. And 
then, in touching words, he bade her farewell until they should 
meet again within the eternal mansion of their Heavenly Father ! 

When Mr. Stuart returned home from his business that evening, 
he could not but remark the alteration in his wife's countenance — 
though Elinor vainly endeavored to suppress every sign of the an- 
guish by which that day had been marked. She was therefore 
obliged to tell hkn of the letter she had received ; and while she 
spoke in as few words as possible of the loss which her friends had 
sustained, her husband gazed sadly upon her pallid face and sunken 
eyes, and honored her for such plainly apparent sympathy with the 
woes of others ! 

Elinor could not but look forward with dread to the daily ex- 
pected return of the Warners. While she pined to clasp those 
dear and long absent friends once more to her heart, she felt that 
she was unworthy their affection, for she regarded herself as the 
destroyer of their domestic happiness. But on the very day when 



the Warner's landed in New York, an event occurred that com- 
pletely turned the current of her thoughts in an opposite direction. 
I allude to the demise of Mr. Stuart, who expired very suddenly 
while in his counting-house, conversing with an acquaintance ! The 
feelings of Elinor, when the husband who had departed that morn- 
ing from his dwelling apparently in the full bloom of health, was 
brought again to her view, cold and hfeless, I shall not attempt to 
describe. So fearful was the shock, that a fever seized upon her 
brain and threatened speedily to terminate her sufferings. 

Upon the first reception of the intelligence of Mr. Stuart's de- 
cease. Mi's. "Warner and her daughters hastened immediately to 
Elinor's side, with the intention of offering the consolation of 
earnest friendship in the time of affliction. But in the ravings of 
delirium she knew them not — and day after day they watched 
anxiously and lovingly by her bedside, till at last their prayers for 
her ultimate recovery were answered — the crisis was safely past — 
and the object of their care languidly unclosed her eyes, and with 
a faint smile of recognition, pressed the soft hand of Lucy Warner, 
who happened just then to be bending over her. 

I have not space to linger upon the history of the days of Eli- 
nor's slow convalescence. Let me hasten to a conclusion by stating 
that when Mrs. Stuart became sufficiently recovered, she related to 
those kind and beloved friends the whole history of her past life, 
while she humbly besought their forgiveness for what she sincerely 
looked upon as her agency in the death of the dear son and 
brother. Their sympathising tears fell fast over her melancholy 
recital, and with gentle and tender care they strove to alleviate her 
sorrow, and to hush the voice of self-reproach. And their unre- 
mitting efforts won her at last to look upon the Future with com- 
parative cheerfulness. During those hours of weakness and dark- 
ness a voice had stolen to her soul — the voice that whispers to 
every heart bowed down beneath the weight of earthly wo — 

" There are God and Heaven above thee ! 
Wilt thou languish in despair ? 
•Tread thy griefs beneath thy feet — 
Scale the walls of heaven by prayer !" 



210 ELINOR WILMOT— OR THE IDEAL. 

And to the heart of Ehnor Stuart the pleadings of that voice came 
not in vain. 

When Mrs. Stuart grew strong enough for a removal, she 
yielded to the solicitations of the Warners, and once again took up 
her abode with them ; not in the home where they had formerly 
dwelt together — that home of mournful memories — but in a 
pleasant residence which they had purchased in a quiet country 
village, some miles away from the busy metropolis. Here, by de- 
grees, and in the performance of active duties, Mrs. Stuart's mind 
recovered serenity, and she learned to feel a happiness purer and 
far more unselfish than that of which she had once dreamed — a 
happiness experienced only by those who have ministered to the 
necessities of their fellow-creatures. 

" To be a glimpse of summer sent 
Into the bleak hearts of the poor, 
To make God's sunshine evident 
By opening Eden's humble door 
To souls where darkness reigned before, — " 

was the chief aim and delight of Ehnor Stuart's later life — and 
while freely distributing her wealth among the poor and destitute, 
she knew that she was making the only atonement in her power 
for the error of the past. 




THE PILOT. 



BY MARY E. HEWITT. 

* Furl the sail ! — Mind the helm !— 

Steer for yon islet 
Ere the storm overwhelm !" 

Shouted the pilot. 
" Look ! how the hurricane, 

Swift o'er the water 
Drives the wild, foaming main, 

On to the slaughter ! 

" Now, with ensanguined spears 

Ruthlessly reeking, 
Far round the headland steers 

Olauf, the Sea-King ! 
Dark runes are on his deck, 

Wide flies his raven — 

Would'st thou 'scape foe and wreck, 

Make for the haven !" 

211 



212 THE PILOT. 



Thou Spirit ! passion-tossed, 

Shipwreck before thee ; 
Furl the sail ere thou 'rt lost- 

Think, God is o'er thee ! 
Fly the dread pirate. Sin — 

Hark ! how the Pilot 
Cries from thy soul within, 

"Steer for the islet r 



THE WAVES. 213 



THE WAVES. 

BY BAYARD TAYLOE. 
I. 

Children are we 

Of the restless sea, 
Swelling in anger or sparkling in g\ee ; 

We follow our race, 

In shifting chase. 
Over the boundless ocean-space ! 
Who hath beheld where the race begun 

Who shall behold it run ? 

Who shall behold it run ? 



When the smooth airs keep 

Their noontide sleep, 
We dimple the cheek of the dreaming deep ; 

When the rough winds come 

From their cloudy home. 
At the tap of the hurricane's thunder-drum, 
Deep are the furrows of wrath we plough, 

Ridging his darkened brow ! 

Ridging his darkened brow ! 

III. 
Over us born. 

The unclouded Morn 

Trumpets her joy with the Triton's horn, 

And sun and star 

By the thousand are 

Orbed in our glittering, near and far : 
18 



2U THE WAVES. 



And the splendor of Heaven, the pomp of Day, 
Shine in our laughing spray ! 
Shine in our laughing spray ! 

IV. 

We murmur our spell 

Over sand and shell ; 
We girdle the reef with a combing swell ; 

And bound in the vice 

Of the Arctic ice, 
We build us a palace of grand device — 
Walls of crystal and splintered spires, 

Sparkling with diamond fires ! 

Sparkling with diamond fires ! 



In the endless round 

Of our motion and sound. 
The inmost dwelling of Beauty is found, 

And with voice of strange 

And solemn change, 
The elements speak in our world-wide range, 
Harping the terror, the might, the mirth. 

Sorrows and hopes of Earth ! 

Sorrows and hopes of Earth ! 



OBLIVION. 215 



OBLIVION. 



BY J. H. HEWITT. 



I heard the roll of muffled drum 

And piercing fife, as lone I stray 'd ; 
" Thus, thus," thought I, " within the tomb 

Shall Fame's * undying ' wreaths be laid." 
Upon a monument I saw 

The hero's glorious deeds retraced ; 
Obhvion came — I read no more, 

His name — his deeds were all eftaced. 

I saw a monarch on his throne, 

A throne of skulls, imbued in blood ; 
And awful splendor round him shone, 

As high he sat, " the great — the good." 
I saw the veil of death unfurl'd 

Over his stern and stately brow ; 
Oblivion swept him from the world — 

Lo ! where's his name, his greatness now ? 

I saw a bard, and o'er his lyre 

His fingers swept, in thirst for fame ; 
His soul was melting on each wire, 

His pen sent forth its tides of flame. 
I saw him write his epitaph, 

'Twas " dust to dust, and clay to clay ;" 
Oblivion came — he waved his staff. 

And e'en that dust was swept away ! 



216 OBLIVION. 



I saw the planets, moon and sun, 

Array 'd in all their glorious light, 
Careering smoothly, brightly on, 

Pouring out lustre in their flight. 
Oblivion came. Creation's groan 

Was heard amid the crash of spheres ; 
Worlds upon worlds were overthrown, 

And Time, himself, summ'd up his years 

Ye beings of a little hour ! 

Flowrets that bloom, then cease to be 
Know ye who checks Oblivion's power ? 

He who can span infinity ! 
And, oh ! how sad it is to see 

So many rushing madly on, 
Spurning a bright eternity. 

To plunge in hell's oblivion 



THE PHCEBE BIRD. 

BY CAROLINE CHESEBRO'. 
"Life! wliat ia Life? to breatlie happily and joyfuly?" — Mrss Bremer. 

A LITTLE creature, winged and feathered, has built its nest this 
spring-time in a giant tree, near by, and from morning till night it 
repeats its plaintive cry, " Phoe-be, Phoe-be," — a mournful cry and 
call, which the lonely bird seems destined to have never answered. 
A cry and a call which, ringing in my ear continually, suggests 
somewhat which is here as mournfully submitted. 

Professor Sweete married, late in hfe, a beautiful young girl, to 
whom he became suddenly, and devotedly attached. Dora Hop- 
kins was poor, an artist — a miniature painter. When the Professor, 
yielding to the long and urgent solicitations of a friend, engaged her 
to take his likeness, he had not the shghtest idea of ever making 
a plea that she would take his heart also, and yet before the lady- 
painter's work was done, he had accomplished all this — had won a 
love grateful, ardent, and devoted, and then what a matter of 
wonderment was it to the good, honest soul, that he should ever 
have been able to exist without such love ! 

For thirty years he had lived among his books — had sought for 
his companions only studious, silent men. The secrets of science, 
the depths of philosophy, the wonders of nature, had been the sub- 
jects of his life-long contemplation, rather than the secrets, and 
depths, and wonders of human hearts. He had cultivated his 
intellect to the utmost, and yet not entirely at the expense of 
his more human nature — the Professor had merely hved as many 
another most worthy, good, and wise personage has done, in con- 
stant converse with high things, forgetful or unconscious of the 

rich ripe fruits at his feet, within his grasp. 
18* 



218 THE PH(EBE BIRD. 



But when he took to his heart the young wife, all things became 
changed to him. Dora was his darling; he cherished her as the 
apple of his eye — his most fervent wish was to ensure her happi- 
ness — he made to her the greatest sacrifice in his power to make 
— his time, which he devoted to her — and this sacrifice was 
offered without one thought, save of sincerest pleasure. This, be- 
cause he felt most deeply when by her side, that it was " not 
good for him to be alone." 

And though he was as old again as she, and though her mind 
was an infant's compared with his — and though she knew her 
own great deficiencies of education, and of strong, vigorous intellect, 
Dora did well love her husband, and without fear. She reverenced 
him, as one who had stooped from a high place to lift her up to 
him — she was grateful to him, as one who had exalted her, the 
homeless and the friendless, to be a companion and an equal for 
the wise, and the happy ; who had given her all that she had dared 
dream of as bliss. And the husband also reverenced the wife. 
She was not to him the mere companion of his idle hours — in the 
glory of her genius, in her spiritual beauty, in the purity and 
innocence of her heart, he found that which more than compen- 
sated for the want of a school education ; to him she was both 
wife and child, and he adored her as such. 

It was a happy marriage — and yet, alas ! scarcely three years 
of their union had passed, ere Dora died, suddenly, — while the 
Professor was away from home — after an illness of only a few 
hours. The light of his young wife's love had been most blessed 
to the husband — it was with uncontrollable anguish that he heard 
the tidings of her death, and when he followed her body to the 
grave he felt that it was to witness the burial of his heart's best 
treasure. 

Only one solace was left the widowed man in his bereavement — 
the little daughter Phoebe, a child two years of age at the time of 
the mother's death. She was a pale and feeble creature, timid, but 
very affectionate, whose only beauty, even in babyhood, lay in her 
large brown eyes, so very like her mother's. But in the first burst 



THE PHGEBE BIRD. 219 



of sorrow the Professor found little comfort in the child — she was 
a constant remembrance of his grievous loss, she was a sad witness 
of the gentle companion, the loving friend, the beautiful wife — he 
felt too bitterly that her death left him alone, to perceive, even in 
her daughter, that there was a household joy still left him. 

As I have said, among the learned and the scientific, Professor 
Sweete held high place. He had been much honored in his life, 
and laurels which even the most intellectual never quite despise, 
had been awarded him. But the fond warm love of his young 
wife, who adored him for himself, and not for his acquirements, the 
devotedness which accompanied the deep respect she always yielded 
to him, had been to the learned man such grateful offerings, had 
made their daily life so beautiful, that to him it was the dearest, 
most precious boon Providence had ever vouchsafed. There had 
been no sunbeam of fame that so gladdened his heart as her smile 
— no music like that of her sweet voice, powerful to set his soul 
at peace. And now that joy withdrawn, he could not go back to 
his studies with the zest of former years ; the spell which bound 
him to the Tree of Knowledge was broken — he had tasted of the 
Golden Fruit ! 

And yet — little more than a twelvemonth had elapsed, when the 
widower married again ! Did this act betoken a speedy forgetful- 
ness of the dead ? No — far from it : it but proved the devotion of 
his love. So happy had those wedded years been to him, so 
blessed was the companionship of his lost wife — so dear to him for 
her sake, was become the voice of woman — so cheerless the thought 
of a home unenlivened by the presence of a sympathizing, constant 
friend, that the Professor held it a duty to himself, as also to the 
darling little girl, his Dora's child — when at last he met with one 
whose heart he fancied answered to his own, to seek her hand. He 
did this, and the lady gave it him, 

Louise Maberry had been educated in another sphere of life than 
that of the first Mrs. Sweete. She was of an old and highly 
respectable family, but her fortune, as Dora's, lay only in her 
natural endowments. In his youth, her father had run through 



220 THE PHCEBE BIRD. 



his large possessions, and the mother's reserved portion barely 
suflBced to educate her daughters. Louise was the youngest, and 
last unmarried of these ; she was a lady of winning manners, and 
well educated mind, therefore was fitted to win the respect of the 
Professor, without which he had not given her his love. The 
mother of this lady had succeeded in securing good establishments 
for her elder daughters, and was overjoyed to receive, in behalf 
of her youngest, the advances of a man who stood so high in the 
world's estimation as this suitor. She cared not so much for wealth 
in this instance — she knew Professor Sweete had it not— but a 
distinguished, honored name was the next most desirable thing, 
and accordingly her daughter became the widower's wife. 

But in the heart of Mrs. Louise there was wanting all that 
confidence which had been the great charm, the secret tie of the first 
union. The new wife's awe for her husband was nearly synony- 
mous with fear. His name had been associated for years in her 
mind with great and high, but also with stern, and loveless 
thouojhts : when she was a child he had been her instructor — she 
had conned the books he wrote, and never could she rid herself 
of that idea which children invariably have of a stony-minded, 
intellectual teacher. She could never, try as she might, receive 
him, or be to him a companion, in the dearest sense of the word ; 
a companion such as Dora had been — she could never see in him 
a lover, the most familiar, the nearest of all friends. Yet was 
such companionship in the husband's mind for her ; he truly ad- 
mired Louise, and it was with the sincerest grief that he at 
last became convinced he must forever knock at the door of his 
wife's heart in vain. 

And then, and therefore it was, that he, who for the love of 
woman would have renounced the lonely paths of study ; having 
discovered that the golden fruit would ripen for him no more, 
returned again to his books, to his silent work — becoming once 
again a grave, reserved, and thoughtful man. 

Two children, a daughter whom they called Dora Louise, and a 
son Norman, were in course of years added to the household. 



In Dora, as time passed, was unfolded all the passionate nature, 
all the impulsiveness that lay hid beneath her mother's cold exterior. 
She was full of health, and " fair, to see," — a lively, laughing girl, 
to take one's heart by storm — to be loved after such conquest fer- 
vently, despite her glaring faults. 

The daughters of this house were living witnesses of their 
mothers. Soul-witnesses indeed, for sweet young Phoebe Sweete 
did not inherit the personal loveliness of her parent, nor was little 
Dora a facsimile of Louise. The patience, meekness, generosity, 
bodily-weakness, and intellectual strength of the eldest, was in no 
more striking contrast with the thoughtless gaiety, wilfulness, pride, 
and passionate lovingness of the younger sister, than was the 
physical development of each. The dark hair, and full expressive 
eyes, the blooming countenance, joyous face, and rapid movements 
of the life-loving Dora, had not one faint semblance in the pale face 
of the frail invalid-child, Phoebe. They were children to be greatly 
loved, because they appealed for this so strongly, though in very 
different ways — the one preferring always a claim, the other a 
petition that was looked rather than asked, for the affection of 
others : they were children to be tenderly and prayerfully guarded, 
because of the great tendency in the nature of each for much that 
is hurtful and dangerous. 

The father's heart had always turned with peculiar tenderness 
towards his eldest child. An infirmity, springing from an accident, 
(that happened to her shortly after her mother's death,) and 
fostered by uncommon natural weakness, had resulted in incurable 
lameness, and aside from the pitying love this misfortune drew 
towards the girl, the Professor felt that she was, indeed, motherless. 
Mrs. Sweete was too well bred, she had too much of respect for her- 
self and for her husband, to become ever the tyrant of a young and 
gentle child — but she never loved the little Phoebe, and never had 
for her any protestations of affection. She was the guardian of the 
girl — never suffered her to want for any one comfort — she had too 
much of common humanity to be capable even of harshness to one 
so patient and so mild— she was strictly honorable and conscientious 



222 THE PH(EBE BIRD. 



in all her dealings with the oldest daughter. But the father looked, 
and he knew that there was a cruelty just as extreme, more tortu- 
ring to a sensitive soul, than the tyranny of physical strength, 
because from it no appeal can be made. And he knew that Phoebe 
suffered from it — he read it in the mute, but constant, and to him 
most affecting appeals her eyes made for a love like that the 
mother lavished on Dora and on Norman, which was mild in its 
excess, for the pent-up devotion of the woman was given all to 
them — he read it in the silence, the constraint, the sadness of the 
lonely girl, and as he read, he took the dead wife's child more 
tenderly to his heart, resolving that he would be father and mother 
to her, knowing that it was his duty to let her find in him a full 
answer to the love-cry of her heart. 

So it was that her education was conducted solely by him, who 
in his tenderness feared that others would unfold less judiciously 
than himself, or unwittingly tax too far, the young girl's mind — the 
mind whose powers he proudly recognised — which was so precious 
in his sight. Dora Louise, at the age of four years, also became 
her father's pupil, and the two children studied then from the same 
book, read from the same page, and wrote at the same table : 
Phoebe did this, though much in advance of her sister, in order to 
encourage her, and Louise needed this encouragement, for even as 
she grew older, she evinced no manner of aptness for the acquisition 
of knowledge. 



The children had never been christened, but the child of Louise 
had always been called Dora, for the Professor felt that in giving 
this name to her he bound his household together, the living and 
the dead, in the tenderest tie. No opposition was made to this ; 
Mrs. Sweete never opposed in any one thing the expressed wish of 
her husband : all had followed the father's example in naming the 
little girl, but he learned a bitter lesson one day, when calling her 
to repeat her morning hymn, she exclaimed : 

" You must not call me Dory, father, mamma says I am her 
little Louise." 



i 



THE PHCEBE BIRD. 223 



A sudden and a sharp pang shot through his heart as he heard 
this ; for a moment grief and anger silenced him, but when he 
called the child again, he only said quietly, though with unusual 
sternness, " Yes, yes, you are Louise — that shall be your name." 

And that very evening the baptismal service was read in the 
Professor's parlor ; for the father had suddenly announced the wish 
that his children should be christened at once. He offered no 
reason for this to his wife, merely stated his determination ; but 
she did not need to be told more when the clergyman took her 
child to " sign her with the sign of the cross," and called her only 
Louise, while joined with Phoebe's name was that of the dead 
Dora. 



Phoebe was ten years old, when her father led her one day into 
a room whose doors never opened save to himself. It had been his 
first wife's bridal-chamber — the room in which she died : and when 
he took another bride he resolved that this place should be conse- 
crated to the memory of the dead — that the daughter of his lost 
companion alone, should ever occupy it. And this wish, which was 
from the first made known to Louise, had been constantly complied 
with — because it was a sacred place to her husband, it became so 
to her, and she was far from being jealous of his devotion to the 
departed. Had she not also her love — her children ? 

It was a large, and simply, yet prettily furnished apartment ; a 
pleasant place, whose windows commanded the loveliest prospect. 
Many hours of study and reflection had the Professor passed here 
alone ; in silence, and unseen by mortals, here • he had wept and 
prayed ; here he had struggled, here he had gained victories. To 
the children this room was connected with awful thoughts, and 
always passed in silence — they had an idea that a ghost lived there, 
or that some strange thing had happened in the closed chamber. 
When, therefore, Phoebe now for the first time crossed the thres- 
hold, it was with trembling ; but when the door was closed behind 
her, and she found herself standing with her father in such a pleas- 
ant place, fear vanished in an instant. 



224 THE PHCEBE BIRD. 



The old man sat down in a large arm-chair and took her fondly 
in his arms as though cognizant of her thoughts, and with whis- 
pering voice he said, 

" This was your mother's room, my child," and the tears he shed 
fell fast and warm upon her upturned face. 

" Yes, father," she said, as silently laying her hands in his. 

The touch seemed to inspire him with fresh strength, and he 
continued, speaking still very low. 

" I have brought you here because this is now your room : it is 
a sacred place, your mother died here — it shall be your study now, 
and when you will — Dora — you may come here." 

She only kissed him in answer ; her heart was too full for words 
*— but he knew the meaning of the grateful, fervent embrace. 

" Your mother was an artist," he continued, scanning her face 
now intently, as though he would read her inmost thoughts, " she 
painted portraits for people. I will show you some of her work — 
she was a gifted woman." 

The girl's eyes, those soft brown eyes, actually glowed as she 
listened to these words — a fire seemed to illumine them : she shd 
from his arms, and the Professor arose and opened with a key 
which he gave to Phoebe, the upper drawer of a bureau. 

" This was very like your mother," he said, taking out a small 
miniature. 

" She painted it herself ; — you are not so beautiful as she." 

" No, father," was the girl's answer, when she had looked quietly 
on the picture for many moments ; " but she was good^ and you 
loved her for that. I will be good — you will love me ?" 

" I love you always, my blessed child," was the fervent answer ; 
and then the old man took from the drawer a casket filled with or- 
naments, and there w^as in it also a long braid of beautiful brown 
hair. He gave her that — laying it round her neck — it was but a 
shade darker than the child's, and of the same soft, silky texture. 
She took it in her hands and said, — 

" I cannot wear it yet, father. I will look at it every day, and 
then I know it is mine ! oh, it is so good in you to let me have a 



THE PHCEBE BIRD. 225 



mother, for it seems as though you had given me a mother here 
to-day." 

" Is it so, darling ? it is what I thought — all I hoped, -when I 
brought you here !" 

" Won't you let me learn to paint ? I have always thought so 
much about it — is'nt it strange ? I thought I would ask you some 
day to let me learn to paint." She fixed those Dora-eyes long- 
ingly on her father, as though fearful of refusal. 

" You would be an artist ! why ?" 

" It must be so beautiful to know such work — and mother was 
an artist — and father, I must work." 

"And why still — why must you work ?" 

" I love so to look at pictures — and you know I am lame ; I am 
not like other children, and I want something to do that I can do 
always." 

" You shall learn, my darling little girl !" 

"Here, father?" 

" Yes, here 1" 



And now into this silent place came often the young girl, to 
read, and to think, and then to con those lessons which the artist 
gave her. And that she really did inherit her mother's genius, 
the delighted Professor could not doubt, when he saw the ardor 
with which the no longer spiritless girl pursued her work, and no- 
ticed the fineness of touch, the finish, and beauty of coloring, which 
characterized her labors. The artist who instructed her was aston- 
ished at the rapid progress she made, and he was prouder than his 
pupil of her success. He watched her as she worked, and knew 
that true genius inspired her — he watched her with enthusiasm, 
and envied her when he looked on the results of her labors — envied, 
until his eyes turned from the ivory to her pale face, and saw the 
happy expression which lighted up the delicate features — envied, 
till she would arise and move at that slow, difficult pace, and then 

he felt generously grateful to God for her, and for her rejoicing 
19 



226 THE PHCEBE BIRD. 



proud old father, that such a blessed gift of genius had been as- 
sured to her. 

One day when Phoebe had just finished a likeness of Louise, on 
which she had bestowed much care, and which she intended a 
gift for Mrs. Sweete, she sat gazing on her work and on her sister, 
satisfying herself that it was a perfect semblance. The boy and 
girl stood beside her ; they had been often with her during the pro- 
gress of this work, and the fact that they were to keep its subject 
and its object a secret, had all along given them a great conscious- 
ness of importance. They whispered now their praises loudly as 
they dared, and the boy in his admiration, waxing bold, ventured 
on what he felt to be forbidden ground — he said aloud — 

" Sister Phcebe, do tell us what makes you so quiet here always ; 
and why do you stay here alone so much ?" 

Louise looked up into her sister's face very appealingly as Nor- 
man said this, and though she did not speak, she looked her curiosity. 

Taking the boy in her arms, Phoebe said — 

" It was my mother's room, dear Norman ; it is a sacred place to 
me." 

" Then it's my mamma's room too, and I can make just as much 
noise here as I choose. Hurrah ! why don't mamma stay here, 
then r 

" No, Norman ; her mamma died, and then father married our 
mamma — that's it. Sister Phoebe, what is in that bureau ?" 

" Some of my dear mother's clothes and things," answered 
Phoebe, after a moment's hesitation. " Please go away now — go 
softly — I must be alone." 

They started to obey her, and then Louise turned back a step, 
and whispered, " Won't you let me see in that bureau ?" 

" No, Louise, not now — go — please go." 

And the children obeyed at once. They had been taught by 
mother as well as father, to always heed their sister's directions, for 
Mrs. Sweete, if she did not love the girl, had in her full confidence, 
and reason taught her that no other companion could prove so 
beneficial to her headstrong children as the mild and patient 



ZZJ 

A 



THE PHCEBE BIRD. 227 



Phoebe. Indeed, they had for her almost as much of respect and 
regard as for their mother — they would obey her as soon — would 
serve her as gladly. The two girls were very dear to each other, 
and Norman was the pet of all, with Phcebe, as with the rest ; but 
her love differed from that of the parents, for she could see his 
faults ; and while others were bhnd, or winked at them, it was her 
endeavor to make him also alive to them. 

The day after the hkeness of little Louise was finished, the young 
artist went to her studio to prepare materials ^or taking one of the 
lad. She found him there, and for the first time, to her knowledge, 
he had entered that sanctuary without seeking her permission. He 
stood before the bureau, that treasure-house, (to her !) gazing in- 
tently upon the miniature of Dora Sweete. The contents of the 
drawer, the jewels, and the laces, not costly, but to the daughter 
inestimably precious, were thrown about in confusion, and the braid 
of hair which she had never yet deemed herself worthy to wear ! 
alas, what desecration ! — the thoughtless boy had a dozen times 
severed it, fastening the braids around his tiny wrists — bracelets 
more valuable to her who looked on them, than had they been of 
diamonds. 

When she entered the room her first thought was to avoid sur- 
prising Norman ; she would only gently reprove him, but in such 
a way that he would be sure to never trespass again in like man- 
ner. But when she saw that treasured remembrancer of her 
mother thus despoiled, Phoebe lost all thought save of her own 
sorrowful misfortune, she wept aloud. The boy started as if a 
thunderbolt had fallen at his feet, and when he saw his sister 
weeping so violently, and without the least power of control, be- 
tween fear and astonishment, he stood motionless. He made no 
attempt to escape, but waited like a culprit, anticipating some sen- 
tence from his judge — and it came at last. The sister stood up 
once more, trembling with the weakness which followed her violent 
grief. She moved slowly towards her brother, and clasping his hands, 
knelt down, unfastened the bracelets, and laid them quietly away. 
" You have grieved me more than I can ever tell you," she said ; 



228 THE PHCEBE BIRD. 



" you have almost destroyed what was the most precious of all 
things to me. Norman, why, how could you do this ?" 

" You did not wear it," he muttered at last, " and it was so 
pretty !" 

" And you had everything in the world ! it was my mother's 
hair ; did you not know it ? Oh, Norman !" 

He could not bear it to see her sinking again prostrate in her 
sorrow ; lifting her head he kissed the tear- wet face again and again, 
saying over and over "forgive me — oh, do forgive me, Phoebe" — 
till she did forgive him. 

He never went into that chamber again — no other member of the 
household ever heard a word of the transaction ; but from that day 
Norman loved Phoebe better than he loved any other human being, 
Louise, his constant playmate, not excepted ; and he never in his 
life could forget, or forgive himself for having made her weep. 

The extraordinary gift of genius which had, as by accident, been 
developed in the eldest daughter, excited much of her step-mother's 
interest, and she began to manifest unusual attention towards the 
young creature. It was with great gladness that the Professor 
noticed this. He longed to see the tie of mother and child linking 
together those dearly loved beings, yet he could not deceive him- 
self into the behef that his wife lavished on the poor lame girl any 
of that warm affection that she gave her own : and when at last 
he saw that the genius of Phoebe had been powerful to awaken in 
the mind of the step-mother only that feeling of admiration and 
respect which he knew was her feehng for him, he learned to be 
satisfied with it. 

But the daughter ! She in that silent room had found all that 
in extreme sorrow she had longed for in her earhest youth — a 
mother's love ! She felt it encircling her, an atmosphere cheering 
and exalting, in that sanctuary where she was born, and where her 
mother died. She felt it warming her heart when it was most 
chilled and lonely — nerving her hand in weariness — a constant 
benediction, a perpetual spring of peace. A very happy girl was 
she then ; the smile of approval, and the affectionate words her 



THE PHCEBE BIRD. 229 



father gave to her so freely out of- his rich, full heart — the love of 
Louise and Norman — these were hers ; and together with the 
glorious work given her to do, .how pleasant was made her life! 
Silent, pale, a cripple was she still, but there was no sadness in her 
soul — peace, satisfaction, contentment, these lived there instead. 



Louise was fourteen years old when her mother died ; Phoebe had 
just passed her eighteenth year, and Norman his twelfth. Mrs. 
Sweete died suddenly, even as the first wife had — after only a few 
days of illness. The promise of many years, of a long life, seemed 
hers : she was apparently in perfect health the morning of that 
day when the disease prostrated her — and in delirium her sickness 
passed. The last words she uttered while her reason was yet clear, 
were those spoken just after her attack, when she gave Louise and 
Norman smilingly into Phoebe's charge, begging her to find some 
evening occupation for them. 

' It was a life-long charge, and so the elder sister felt it to be, 
when the lady died without giving another. And the duty of a 
mother, as she, poor child, imagined it, she always industriously 
fulfilled. 

After the mother's death, though Phoebe still continued her 
studies, and was guided by her father in them, she was no longer 
his pupil in the sense she had been, as Louise and Norman still 
were. A great idea of being independent was now taking strong 
hold in her mind, and knowing full well that her parent's means 
were hmited, she resolved to become a professional artist, as her 
mother had been — she would work for pay. No mention of this 
wish or intention was made to the father, or to any other, till the 
first work was really sold, and then she no longer concealed from 
him, to whom her heart was as an open book, the strong desire she 
cherished, and to this wish the Professor wisely acceded. 

But, about this time, (shortly after his wife's death,) a strange 
sickness began to overpower the Professor's energies. From a 
strong, energetic, healthful man, he became, as it were, instantane- 
ously broken. His mind lost its high tone — his cheerfulness fled 
19* 



230 THE PHOEBE BIRD. 



— he became a prey to deep-seated melancholy. It was sadder to 
look on his smile then, than it had been to behold him weep — it 
was too like a wan stream of sunlight illumining a sepulchre — a 
moonbeam lighting up the face of the dead ! In vain did Phoebe, 
relinquishing her own tasks, now entirely devote herself to him — 
most of the time he seemed utterly unconscious of her presence, 
yet when she was away from him his constant cry was, " Phoe-be ! 
Phoe-be !" like that of the bird whose nest is in the giant tree near 
by, whose dreary cry seems doubly sad to me, this dark, miserable 
day. 

It was with infinite terror that the daughter watched the pro- 
gress of this most strange disease. It was not hke the sudden fall 
of vigorous old age, the triumph of time over the physical organ- 
ization ; there was a something gone wholly wrong — it was a sick- 
ness which she could not define — but it terrified her — and the 
more, because of the evident concern and anxiety of the attendant 
physicians. 

Too soon was all made plain, the old man beyond all doubt was 
losing his mind ! But — as the reason was swept from its throne, 
as the intellect was destroyed, as the fire that so brilliantly illu- 
mined his mind went out totally, and forever, to the apprehension 
of all earthly things — strength to the body returned again : health, 
that of the animal, was wholly restored ; and now was the bitter- 
ness of wo, to which his death had been a small thing, given 
Phoebe Sweete to drink. The eyes which fixed upon her knew 
her not — the voice that issued from his lips took never form of 
words, save that one cry of " Phoebe ! Phoebe !" which it almost 
seems the melancholy bird must have learned from him. Alas ! 
the noble old Professor was become a brother to the brute ! 

It was long before his eldest child could fully comprehend this 
awful truth. She had not heard or known that an affliction so 
grievous as this was ever visited on the children of men ; it seemed 
a thing impossible that an intellect like his should pass, and the 
clay tenement live — nay, prosper even, as though a spirit detrimen- 
tal to its growth had hitherto dwelt there ! 



THE PHCEBE BIRD. 231 



As, ere the fatal truth was made known to her, she sat, during 
the days of his bodily recovery, and read and talked to him, and 
watched his seeming attention, and then listened to his totally ir- 
relevant words, she could but wonder : as she brought to amuse 
him many of her own beautiful works, and laid them one by one 
before his eyes, she was frightened at the idiot-smile with which he 
gazed on them— as, in her despair, she at last, unable longer to 
control herself, revealed to him the anguish of her heart, and 
prayed that he would tell her all that troubled him, not till then, 
when he put her away with brutish anger, that transformed itself 
suddenly into pitiful cries, did she understand how it all was — and 
then — but, reader, only for a moment then — did her spirit faint and 
fail as she beheld the awful truth. 

There was work for her to do then — work in which Louise could 
aid, but whose chief weight must fall on the frail, crippled girl ; 
and that work Phoebe did not fail to accomplish. Much yet re- 
mained to the completion of Norman's education —his best in- 
structor, his father's mind, had literally perished in the task, and 
now must she complete it by furnishing him the means wherewith 
to seek it elsewhere. Those who knew the Professor, and heard 
the resolve of his daughter, were speedy in affording her work, 
which they remunerated well, and a double pleasure attended the 
artist's work, as she toiled now for a holy purpose day after day — 
while the gay Louise, grown suddenly very patient, thoughtful, 
and sacrificing, the beautiful Louise proved that the hero-spirit 
was not wanting in her. 

In his seventeenth year Norman Sweete was sent to Uni- 
versity. A bright, light-hearted, hopeful lad was he at this time ; 
talented, shrewd, fond of amusements, one of those youths who 
are capable equally of being everything or nothing : — and Phoebe 
knew, who knew him best, that he would never stop half-way, 
either in the upward or the downward course ; he had ambition, 
and he had strong passions — they might lead him to the heights, 



232 THE PHCEBE BIRD. 



or to the depths ; and, knowing this, it was with a trembling heart 
she sent him forth. 

The remembrances he bore with him from his father's house, 
were surely enough to sober his wild spirits — to tame his youthful 
blood. His hopes had been saddened by the stern pictures he had 
gazed on, and it was with a depressed mind that he went for the 
first time from the paternal roof into the world. But in three 
years he would graduate — then, as a tutor, he could certainly find 
constant employment — sure support. This Norman pledged him- 
self to do — when, after looking the last time on his father, after 
parting with Louise, he stood with his hands clasped in hers who 
was to support him during his absence — and it seemed to him that 
look of her pale, dear face, would be a life-long talisman. Surely, 
if ever a proud boy went with good desires and pure intentions 
forth to life, young Norman Sweete did ! 

Yet he had not been gone one year from home, when tidings 
came to the patiently-toiling, the ever hopeful sister, that for his 
misdeeds he had been suspended, and had left the University ! 
Several dreary days passed after this intelligence was received in 
his home, and he did not make his appearance ; and then Phoebe, 
fearful that the boy, in his trouble, might desperately plunge into 
wilder excesses, determined to go to Providence and seek him out. 
She set out alone on the journey — the first journey of her life ! It 
was a fruitless one. Her brother had left the University, and as 
was supposed, the city — no tidings were to be obtained respecting 
his movements. More than this, Phoebe learned that it was not 
one wild outbreak that had occasioned his punishment — repeated 
follies and transgressions had incurred the master's heavy displeas- 
ure, and it was only the name he bore which had preserved him 
from ignominious and peremptory expulsion, long before he was 
suspended. 

With feelings almost of joy, that her father could not know of 
the disgrace his son had brought upon himself — with wonder, too, 
that Norman, knowing so well all the high hopes that were centred 
in him, could so chill those hopes, and with sorrow that he had 



THE PHCEBE BIRD. 



233 



not been proved able to withstand temptation, with love also, and 
tender forgiving affection, it was oppressed with such feelings that 
Phoebe returned, still alone, to her father's house. 

With eager impatience had her coming been looked for by Louise. 
Louise, who could not believe the story of her darling's folly — 
Louise, who would have staked all her hope of happiness on his 
perfect integrity. Even during the few days of Phoebe's absence, 
the extreme anxiety of the girl — the constant confinement to the 
attendance of her father, for which her whole nature was so unfit- 
ted, had sunk her spirits to a dead level — her health was really 
suffering from the effect of constant companionship, which it had 
been necessary she should give to her poor, ruined parent. And 
Phoebe, the pale and feeble one, forgetful of her own weariness and 
heart-sickness, felt that too much had been exacted of her young 
sister, when she looked now on her faded cheek, and saw how de- 
pressed in spirits — how miserably nervous she was become. 

The physician who attended the Professor, had also anxiously 
watched the change in the gay, bright girl ; and he became sud- 
denly and sadly apprehensive that real danger attended her self- 
sacrifice. Perhaps he w^ould not have been so much alarmed by 
what he saw, had he not loved the fair Louise, but this being the 
case. Dr. Weld only the more intently believed that her well-being 
required an immediate change in the way of living. He longed to 
take her to his own home where his mother lived — he longed to 
give a daughter to the dear old lady. 

A cough, which so often opens for the young a short way to the 
grave, had much troubled Louise for many weeks, and though she 
made no complaint, the fact was not to be concealed that she grew 
daily weaker and more nervous. Especially since Norman had so 
cruelly disappointed her was this observable ; and to relieve her, 
despite all opposition, Phoebe took upon herself still more of care. 
She turned even the night into day, that she might work for all — 
and she was indeed the soul of all. People said she was killing 
herself by such unheard-of exertion ; but Phoebe had no fear of 
death, and she knew that He who gives to the weak mortal strength, 



234 THE PHCEBE BIRD. 



would continue her supply so long as it was needful she should be 
on earth. 

It was a delicate position in which the kind physician found him- 
self placed. He was young, and poor — but he devoutly loved 
Louise Sweete, and he knew that the life she led was slowly and 
surely destroying her — and he knew somewhat else. A secret, 
which perchance a stray breath of air had whispered to him, that 
he should not have to plead in vain for the young maiden's hand ! 
But how could he ask the elder sister to give up to him her sole 
companion — how could he take away the one friend of her heart ? 

He did ask it, though to his credit be it said, not till he was 
convinced that either death or he must win : that speedy removal 
from her present home to a cheerfuUer, though still more humble 
one, must be accomphshed, if he would not see her borne to a 
narrower and more silent habitation. 

And so thus said he to Phoebe — 

" What would you do without Louise ? you are a glorious wo- 
man." 

What connexion there could be between this interrogation and 
exclamation, had she had time to think about it just then, Phoebe 
would have been quite curious to know. But now, so matter-of- 
fact, by compulsion, was she become, that she only looked on the 
questioner, and said — 

" I could live doubtless — we are strong-hearted. How much a 
mortal can bear !" 

This reply made it rather difficult for the poor doctor to proceed, 
but he did at last say — 

" She is getting very pale and thin, and coughs too much — you 
should have a man to nurse the Professor ; it is no woman's work." 

" Ah," was the mournful reply, " there is many a hard task fall- 
ing on woman, which the kind heart might easily think was no 
woman's work. Poor Louise ! she cannot bear — she was never 
meant for such a task as is set her. I sometimes wish she might 
be away, much as it would grieve me to be parted from her." 

" But, dear Phoebe, can you not think of a separation which 



THE PHCEBE BIRD. 235 



would be a pleasure to you both, which would prove no separa- 
tion ?" 

" No, I cannot, doctor, though I believe I comprehend your 
words." 

" Yes ! I must marry her," he exclaimed, in joyous relief, now 
that all was out. " I must marry her, or it will go very hard if 
she be confined a watchful nurse in this house much longer." 

There was a long pause in the conversation, and the Phoebe-bird 
looked paler than usual, as at last she looked up and said — 

" Doctor Weld, does Louise love you ?" 

" I know she does !" 

" Then take her, in God's name — for I do believe she will die if 
she stays here !" 

" But— but you, Phoebe ?" 

" I shall do very well," was the quiet answer ; " she will be near 
at hand, and you w:ll be a brother now." 

" You shall have a man-nurse at once for the Professor !" ex- 
claimed the lover, in a transport of gratitude. " It is essential ; I 
will provide one — that is a part of the contract." 

" God be with you and bless you," answered Phoebe fervently, 
and with tender solemnity, as the doctor hastened away in search 
of Louise 

And the twain were married. .... 

For more than three years Phoebe dwelt with the old man, to 
all intents alone ; two other persons only made up the household — 
the nurse and the housekeeper, and alas ! they were now as much 
to him as his own daughter ! 

Nothing in all this time had been heard of Norman ; and 
though the thought of him was, to the sisters, and especially to 
the eldest, an almost constant trouble, still they could but hope, 
Phoebe with every dawning day, that some good tidings would be 
heard of him ere the night came again. 

Every day also was this glorious Bird perfecting herself in that 
art which was giving her a Hving, and a fame ; and that record 



236 THE PHCEBE BIRD. 



which the angels write on the faces of mortals, who are becoming 
perfect through* suffering, was being traced more legibly on hers. 

The frequent companionship of the again beautiful and happy 
Louise, was a joy to her ; and there was another who often sought 
the Professor's house to hold converse with his ever-watchful 
daughter. It was the Artist who taught her those first lessons, in 
which, at the very outset, she was recognised by him as no feeble 
rival. He, too, since those days, had acquired a brilliant reputa- 
tion, yet was he well aware that more of true and powerful genius 
was in the woman's soul than in his own. And though she was 
feeble, and pale, and a cripple, the splendid, the gifted man loved 
her. He loved her for her voice, so low and musical, the very out- 
breathing, as it were, of some of her exquisite, soul-shaped designs: 
it thrilled his soul as no other woman's could. He loved her be- 
cause she worshipped that Art to which himself was bound, be- 
cause she had a pure and elevated soul ; for her glorious intellect, 
for her mighty power of self-forgetfulness. She was never else 
than beautiful to him, but — 

■' She shone in her bright realm, apart 
From all of earthly leaven ; 
A beacon to his erring heart, — 
Its ray of light from heaven. 

" Too perfect there, he deemed, to love 

As mortal things are loved ; — 

Too constant in its sphere, to move 

As woman's heart is moved." 

In spite of this he came to talk with her on all other themes, 
than this one of love, which lay nearest his heart. And just in 
consequence the thought and the dream of her became only more 
thoroughly a part of his life : and he wished for no future, if he 
mio'ht not share it with her. 

In the Professor's study, which Phoebe had made her own now, 
she sat and worked, her father usually beside her, sleeping in his 
chair, or gazing on his daughter's face, repeating to himself her 
name. And here every week came the Artist, to look at the lady's 
work — forever hesitating whether then to make known his devotion. 
Why should he hesitate ? Solely because he felt if it ever hap- 



THE PHCEBE BIRD. 237 



pened that he ought not to cherish a thought of her as though 
she were his own, hfe would be thenceforth nothing to him. He 
became humble when he thought of her — he forgot, or held very 
light the honors himself had received, in the conviction that she 
was worthy, and might have, were she not too proud to claim, in- 
finitely more valuable fame than he ; forgotten was all her want 
of natural beauty — which to an artist's eye might seem unpardon- 
able in a lady of his love — he only knew that her spirit was glori- 
ous, that she had a heart and a soul, and was not ashamed to con- 
fess to either — and it was her spirit-love he sought. 

And how thought she, " the tried by fire and purified 2" How 
thought she, who in her childhood had prayed but for human love, 
how thought she of him ? As a mortal woman may think of a 
mortal man ! 

At nightfall, one evening in summer, a child stood at the door 
of the Professor's cottage, and Phcebe Sweete read (and the child 
wondered why she should turn so deathly pale) these words, which 
were scrawled, with a trembling hand evidently, on a bit of paper : 

" Dear Phoebe, I am dying ; may I — may I come home ? — Norman." 

A moment more, and the sister was following that messenger 
through the street to the place where he had stopped. Norman 
had but just come, and he had said truly, he was dying. Had 
this not been so, he would never have ventured a return home — 
but in the time when mortal vigor failed him, when he knew 
almost to an hour when his pilgrimage would end, he hastened 
back to his old home, impelled by conscience, and his still living 
love, to pray for the forgiveness of those, whom he had never for 
a moment, even in his wildest moods, forgotten. He would be 
buried by his buried mother — he would tell Phoebe, his angel- 
sister, that it was not becaijse he failed in love to her, or in ability 
to feel her goodness, that he first went astray — he would look upon 
Louise once more. 

Norman Sweete had indeed led a wild, a reckless hfe ; he needed 

not tell it ta her who now so thankfully, but so sorrowfully, led 
20 



238 THE PHCEBE BIRD. 



him to his father's house ; he had exhausted his mortal nature, and 
was yet so young ! When he left the University, it was shame 
that prevented his return to those whose confidence he had so 
abused — he had endeavored more than once, in his mad career, to 
restore himself; he had endeavored virtuously and soberly to earn 
his living, but temptation again and again assailed him, until at 
last he was totally lost to worldly good and honor. But it was, 
notwithstanding this fearful shipwreck he had made, with heartfelt 
gratitude that he was welcomed back — with devout thanksgiving 
that his penitence, though so late, was made known, for the sisters 
felt then that the prodigal would be forgiven by the Mightiest, 
even as they forgave him. 

The Professor did not look upon his son until after the youth 
was dead. The morning of the burial Phoebe led him into the 
funeral chamber, and uncovered before his eyes the face of the 
corpse ; the old man gazed upon it wonderingly for a moment, and 
then uttering a cry of terror, but without the least recognition of 
the boy who had once been the hope and the pride of his heart, 
he ran hastily from the room. Alas ! what a night was that which 
was fallen on a day-dawn so rosy-hued, so full of promise ! 



When the last sickness fell upon the old man, it was thought, 
and oh ! how it was hoped by one sad heart, that the light; of 
reason, for a moment at least, might be restored — but it was not 
so. When his head drooped heavily and more heavily, when he 
could neither walk, nor stand, nor sit longer, but lay in helpless- 
ness on his bed, there was still one cry, and but one cry, that 
found utterance from his lips— from his lips only. And the tender, 
patient answer always given his call, was unheeded still. " Phoebe ! 
Phoebe !" they were the last words he breathed — that was the last 
cry that went up from the dying. And while the piteous cry 
rung so sadly through her heart, even then she was there, sup- 
porting, nursing him — and he knew it not ! How strange that it 
should be so — that such strong, unwavering devotion should have 



-^ 



THE PHCEBE BIRD. 239 



been given one forever dead to it, while in that very hour a myriad 
human hearts agonized for human love and care, and found it not ! 



There remaineth but one other change — but one other trial 
through which the Phoebe bird can pass. > She has taken the wife's 
vow upon her, but the Angels of Heaven will hail their sister of 
the earth ere long : they have already written their welcome on 
her brow — they have kissed her, and an increased hohness and 
beauty lies in her d^r brown eyes, and in her pleasant smile. 
Phoebe, the long-suffering, the gifted, the kind, the wholly good, 
will be a Bird of Paradise, and that before this summer sun looks 
on the autumn leaves. I know it — we all know it — he knows it 
who has won her but to feel the bitterness of loss. Twelve blessed 
months have passed since she became the Artist's bride, but he 
knew before the marriage-day that death would claim her soon. 
He bound her to him by the sacred tie, that she might be his 
where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage — that in 
the Land where Immortals know as they are known, he might 
claim her by a name wherewith he named her on this earth ! 

Sweet Phoebe Sweete ! She is going down to the Halls of 
Death, to the region of the Silence ; — the " eternal weight of 
glory," surely, surely, is in store for her ; there is no earthly good, 
no blessing of which mortals are aware, that is meet for her who 
has suffered so bravely, who has done so wisely and so well ; and 
therefore it is, it must be, that the Angel of Death is leading her 
away ! 



240 A REQUIEM. 



A REQUIEM. 

BY MRS. RICHARD B. KIMBALL. 

The opening spring in tender liglitjl 
Her budding treasures brings to me ; 

But Spring has buried from my sight 
Her brightest gem in thee ! 

The Summer, with her sunny bloom, 
And gentle sounds in grass and tree, 

"Whispers and glows above the tomb — 
The tomb we've made for thee. 

The threat'ning winds from lowering skies, 
The winds that herald Autumn free, 

But moan in concert dreary sighs — 
To sighs we breathe for thee. 

Cold Winter's icy tears that hang 
In bitter drops on hill and lea, 

Are thrice congealed by every pang 
That grief has known for thee ! 



A REVERIE. 



241 



A REVERIE. 

BY REV. RALPH HOTT. 

Life is a fleeting thing, 
Ever upon the wing, 
Transient the hours that bring 

The night and day. 
Pleasures, like Cynthia's beam, 
Lovely a moment seem, 
Clouds sail athwart the gleam. 

And hide the ray. 

Love hath the name of joy. 
But Cupid, the arch boy. 
Oft doth the heart decoy, 

To be deceived : 
Rarely the heart is stirred,— 
Friendship is but a word. 
Spoken, but seldom heard 

To be believed. 



Fame is a trumpet's blast ; 

Loud, strong, but soon the last 

Sound into silence past, 

Is heard no more : 

Laurels of triumph die 

Soon as the warrior's eye 

Closes in death — a sigh, 

And all is o'er. 
20* 



242 A REVERIE. 



But for the Christian soul, 
Vainly, from pole to pole, 
Oceans of sorrow roll, 

Him to destroy ; 
For in the deepest sea, 
Deeper his peace shall be. 
And in Eternity, 

Boundless his joy. 



GIFTS FOR THE GRAVE. 243 



GIFTS FOR THE GRAVE. 



BY ELIZABETH G. BARBER. 



"I'm going through the Eternal gates 
Ere June's sweet roses blow I 
Death's lovely angel leads me there — 
And it is sweet to go."— F. S. Osgood. 



By crystal streams that lie 

In Fancy's holy land, 
The sweet wild flowers of poesy 

She culled with gentle hand, 
And singing as she strayed 

Through the green paths of earth, 
Of highway flowers bright wreaths she made 

For many a weary hearth. 

Flowers for her lyre to twine, 

— (Now silent and alone) — 
To strew, as 't were some altar shrine. 

Her monumental stone. 
And they are but less fair, 

These stainless gifts of ours, 
Than those that smile in the purer air 

She breathes in Eden's bowers. 

What shall we give our dead ? 

The still and gentle tear- 
Not for the uncaged spirit fled. 

But for the lone ones here ; 



244 GIFTS FOR THE GRAVE. 

Tears from the evening skies, 

The softly dropping dew 
In the Forget-me-not's clear eyes, 

And in the Violet blue. 

What shall our dead be given ? 

Smiles, all serene and bright — 
Smiles, that for her the morn of Heaven 

Rose over Death's dark night, — 
That she has gone before. 

Led " through the eternal gates ;" 
That now for us on Eden's shore 

Another angel waits. 

The flower, the smile, the tear — 

How lovely are they all ! 
How meet for us who linger here 

Still with the grave and pall ; 
Meet gifts for her whose lay 

Has charmed our hearts thus long 
Who puts her earthly harp away, 

And learns an angel's song. 



REMmiSCENCES OF VENICE. 245 



' REMINISCENCES OF VENICE. 

BY MINEE K KELLOGG. 

" Venice, lost and won, 

Her thirteen hundred years of freedona done, 
Sinks like a sea-weed into whence she rose ! 
Better be whelmed beneath the waves, and shun, 
Even in destruction's depth, her foreign foes, 
From whom submission wrings an infamous repose." 

There is a merciful provision in the constitution of the mind, 
that its stimulants shall be derived more through the pleasant and 
agreeable than through the paining and repulsive. Indeed, things 
of beauty, both in a moral and physical sense, may be said to be 
the life of every well regulated intelligence, whilst those of deform- 
ity destroy it. Hence the necessity, so to speak, that our felicities 
should predominate, if not in number, yet in the durability of the 
impressions they produce on the memory. The trials and sorrows 
of childhood are all banished from the heart, by comparison with 
the enjoyment and delight which accompanied them. Were it 
otherwise, the mind would be borne down by the accumulated 
griefs which are the common inheritance, and life would be any- 
thing rather than a blessing to us. The principal pleasure from 
travelling in strange countries, and amid novel scenes, is not during 
the time of the journey, but in the reminiscences of them in after 
life, when the fatigues of body, the cares, and annoyances, and 
anxieties which attended them, are only in the recollection. He 
who is most patient in enduring fatigue, most thoughtful, and stu- 
dious, and laborious in accumulating a knowledge of the grand and 
beautiful in nature and in art, is most certain of reward, and 
travels to useful purposes, gathering harvests of good things into 
the mind, upon which he may draw freely and abundantly in his 
later days. 



246 REMINISCENCES OF VENICE. 

One of the most agreeable incidents of travel that occurs to me^ 
after the lapse of several years, took place at Venice. The grand 
Piazza di San Marco is the principal gathering place of the citi- 
zens during the summer months. In the evenings its arcades are 
crowded by promenaders, and much of the open square is occupied 
by temporary benches, which are filled with persons who take their 
coffee, and ices, and fruits, whilst enjoying the delights of conver- 
sation, and the tender and impassioned music of minstrels, or the 
more stirring strains of well-trained martial bands, supplied by the 
Arch-Duke for the pleasure of the people. It was here that I met 
a friend, a young Venetian, full of life, and poetry, and melody, 
and art, and of an enthusiastic and generous temper. Our conver- 
sation turned upon the ancient glories of Venice, as was very nat- 
ural at such a moment, and the contrast afforded by its present 
dilapidated condition. He entered upon this subject with the 
deepest interest, and spoke in eloquent tones and language of the 
power of the Repubhc under the Doge Dandolo, when Constanti- 
nople and many of the most flourishing islands of the Archipelago 
were conquered by the Venetian navy ; when the laws were im- 
proved, commerce extended, and the arts began to flourish. He 
passed to her golden age, when Venice, after a protracted struggle 
of one hundred and thirty years against her great rival, Genoa, had 
become the mistress of the greater part of Lombardy. In quick 
succession came many adjacent cities, and territories, and islands, to 
her standard : the last, and crown of which, was the fruitful and 
beautiful Cyprus. " Then," said he, exultingly, " we lived ; our Sen- 
ate equalled in abilities that of ancient Rome, and was the wonder 
of other states ; we were pow^erful, rich, and respected as one of 
the most civilized of nations ; and the elegant aits w^ere fostered, until 
the names of Georgione, and Titian, and Paul Veronese were known 
throuo-hout the world. Then it was that the blessings of social life 
were dear to us. But now,'' he added, in a desponding tone, " all 
this glory, all this joy is gone ; and Venice is an inanimate spectre of 
what she was ; her people are prisoners to a strange, and ignorant, and 



REMINISCEJS-CES OF VENICE. 247 

cruel people ;" and lifting his clasped hands and tearful eyes, he 
ejaculated, " Siamo da verro, morti !" 

I asked him if none of the ancient amusements of the people 
still had place amongst them. " Nothing is left to us now but 
music, which we sometimes enjoy ; and if you would meet a few 
of my friends some evening, we will endeavor to entertain you 
with it in our simple way." The next night he invited me to a 
house on the grand canal, where were several of his musical ac- 
quaintances, preparing for a serenade. At about half-past ten 
o'clock we entered a very large gondola at the door. It contained 
a piano, and seats for some sixteen persons. These seats were 
taken by the musicians, and the guests and oarsmen, numbering 
about as many more, stood upon the prow of the boat. We 
started quietly towards the Grand Piazza, and on reaching it the 
music commenced with a plaintive and beautiful Venetian air, 
which continued until we passed slowly by the Ducal Palace, and 
entered the canal which divides it from the Prison. We were now 
beneath the famous Bridge of Sighs, which, with a single arch, 
forty feet above us, united the Prison and the Palace by a covered 
way. A torch of blue was then lighted on the bow of our gondola, 
which illuminated in a mysterious manner the grand and gloomy 
architecture of these immense buildings, feeding the imagination 
with all the horrors of the terrible Council of Ten, when Venice 
was subject to its secret and cruel decisions. The scene was very 
effective. By this time many gondolas from the mole in front of 
the Piazza had joined us. We glided along beyond the palace, 
with nothing to break the silence but the subdued and solemn 
strains of music, so appropriate to the scene. As soon as these 
had died away, there arose an enthusiastic shout of applause from 
the crowded balconies above and the bridges and gondolas about 
us. We soon returned, and as we entered the Grand Canal the 
lively air and chorus of the " Pescatori " commenced, and the light 
of the torches was changed to a glowing scarlet. Directing our 
course down the Grand Canal, in front of St. Mark's Square, we 
were joined by the Arch Duke and suite in their open gondolas, 



248 REMINISCENCES OF VENICE. 

and also by many of the most illustrious persons, Venetians and 
strangers, who had not yet retired from the Grand Piazza. We 
floated down the canal with the tide, and by the light of our 
torches could see distinctly the features of our distinguished train 
of followers, whose gondolas were attached to and floated by the 
side of our own. 

The night was serene, and the stars shone with unusual bril- 
liancy ; the air was balmy and bracing, and all was as still as if we 
had been far off on the ocean ; for Venice, unhke all other cities, 
seated amid the sea, and with no avenues but her canals, gives 
never audible evidence of its existence. Circumstances combined 
to invest the music with unusual charms, and to exert a wonderful 
influence over the feelings and imagination. Floating silently with 
the tide, our company gradually increased, by the addition of 
other gondolas from the palaces, until there were probably fifty, 
all joined to each other, by the time we reached the noble palace 
of the Foscari. After each tune, the air resounded with cheers 
from the balconies, and around us, and as if by magic torches of 
various colors were lighted from the boats and palace windows, 
until the whole scene glowed with mysterious splendor. There 
was time, too, to contemplate the varied glories of architecture 
which the Grand Canal everywhere presents, and to call to mind 
some of the instructive incidents of the lives and fortunes and 
calamities of the illustrious famihes that produced them. 

" From every point a ray of genius flows." 

About midnight we arrived at the noble and imposing Bridge 
of the Rialto. Here we remained for half an hour, and the de- 
lightful music reverberated gently from the wide-spreading arch 
above us. At about half-past one o'clock, the Grand Duke left, 
but many continued with us until we landed within the entrance 
of the Canal Reggio, whence we were conducted by torches to the 
house of a friend, where an excellent supper was already spread 
for us. In the gayest spirits we seated ourselves at the tables, and 
the hours were enlivened by song, and wit, and story. When it 



REMINISCENCES OF VENICE. 249 

was very late the lights were all extinguished but one where our 
host was seated. He commenced reading a very amusing address, 
abounding in compliments for the manner in which the affair had 
been conducted ; felicitating the assembly that although the Vene- 
tians had lost all their commerce and wealth, and been deprived of 
all their ancient glory and liberty, there was still left to them the 
consolations which music affords, and the rational delights of con- 
versation. 

As he finished, he blew out the light, leaving us in total dark- 
ness, unm a blue fire shot up from his plate. It soon changed into 
a purple, then into a deep scarlet, and continued to burn as the 
company applauded. When it was expended, the shutters were 
thrown open, and much to our surprise, the whole horizon was 
gleaming with the gorgeous tints of the rising sun. 

" States fall— arts fade— but nature doth not die, 
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear : 
The pleasant place of all festivity, 
The revel of the earth ; the masque of Italy." 



21 



250 A MEMORY OF FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 



A MEMORY OF FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. 

BY -WILLIAM C. EICHARDS. 

A RAY of sunshine faded from the sky- 
When thy bright spirit bade the world adieu ; 

The trembling Zephyrs breathed for thee a sigh, 
And earth's rare beauty lost a brilliant hue : 

The harp hath one tone less to cheer us now — 
Its chords obey no more thy magic fingers, 

And Time wears deeper wrinkles on his brow, 
Since at thy wooing voice no more he lingers. 

We miss thee, child of Song, we miss thy smile 

That was the sun-ray lapsing from the sky : 
We miss thy bright imaginings the while 

Which all earth's fairest things could not outvie : 
Thy harp shall wake no more to earthly strains, ^ 

But thy fair spirit shining 'mid the angels. 
And with them gliding o'er celestial plains, 

Shall tune it evermore to Heaven's Evangels. 
July, 1850. 



ABSEI^-CR 251 



ABSENCE. 

BY THE REV. GEORGE W. DOANE, D.D., LL. D 

My only and my own one, 

How dark and drear the day, 
That drags its Hngering length along, 

When thou art far away ; 
The loveliness that lighted up 

My life, no longer nigh, 
And hushed the voice that used to fill 

My sOTil with melody. 

High in the broad blue firmament, 

Among those worlds of light. 
The faithful witness holds her place, 

Constant, serene, and bright : 
My aching heart in sadness sinks ; 

For so her placid eye 
Looked down, when heart to heart we walked, 

In hours of joy gone by. 

I sit among my silent books. 

And think, with what a pride 
I scanned their hoarded treasures o'er, 

When thou wert by my side : 
I hsten for thy gentle step, 

I watch the opening door ; 
The page is mark'd, the pen laid down, 

Alas ! thou com'st no more. 



252 ABSENCE. 



By day or night, at home, abroad, 

Where'er I roam or rest, 
The thought of thee, my absent love, 

Thus fills my faithful breast : 
Nor bitter, bitter, though it be, 

As pang of parting life, 
Has earth a joy so dear to me, 

TMiile thou 'rt away, my wife I 



f 



THE BLIND FIDDLER. 253 



THE BLIND FIDDLER. 



Y H. S. SARONI. 



The last stroke of the Nicolai church-bell announced to the in- 
habitants of Leipsic, that the year 18 — was amongst the things 
that " had been," and thus gave the signal for the commencement 
of all those festivities, which, generally attendant upon Sylvester 
night, give a peculiar charm of romance to this hallowed hour. 
Even as the last vibrations of the deep-toned bell were still ringing, 
carriages began to roll, and discharged their precious loads of 
beautiful ladies and elegantly-dressed gentlemen into the brilliantly 
lighted ball-rooms. Some few pedestrians, who had been belated, 
hurried on to their solitary homes, and soon the silver stars and 
placid moon shed their serene light upon the deserted streets, 
while the cold northeaster could find nothing to vent his spite 
against but the high spires of the churches, and some dark looking 
alleys, which acted as the mouth-piece to a large square, singing to 
the occupants of the neighboring houses anything but a melodious 
lullaby. 

If any of the ball-rooms in the city deserved particular notice, 

it was the one of the Hotel de Pologne. Rich damask curtains 

were depending from the windows, and huge candelabras shed a 

light which could not have been surpassed by the fairy tales of 

Arabia. Almost every profession, every art, every science was 

represented here by its most respected and celebrated members, 

and the intelligent and the stupid, the witty and the thoughtful, 

the lively and the serious of all classes had assembled here, to 

make the walls reecho with their mirth. But instead of paying 

any more attention to this well-pro vided-for company, the reader 

will take courage for one moment, brave the chilling night air, and 
21* 



254 THE BLIND FIDDLER. 

follow me into the street. There, in the dark recess of an adjoin- 
ing building, and but indifferently sheltered from the inclemency 
of the weather, sat, or rather cowered a young girl, apparently 
about sixteen years of age. In spite of her evident suffering, she 
watched the doors of the hotel with a perseverance truly astonish- 
ing. She must have been watching already for some time, for her 
hands and feet were benumbed with cold, and the wind, as it 
swept past her, scattered the tears, which ran profusely from her 
cheeks, on the pavement, where a moment sufficed to crystalhze 
them, and leave them as mementos of secret woes, until the merci- 
ful breeze of a future day swept them away, and obliterated every 
trace of their existence. 

Her meditations must have been sad indeed, for she hardly per- 
ceived the arrival of a belated carriage. A gentleman ahghted at 
the door of the hotel, and while he wrapped his cloak around him, 
he said to another gentlemen who had remained in the carriage : 
'* Excuse me, sir, for delaying you beyond the appointed hour ; but 
you saw that I could not very well leave sooner, without commit- 
ting a breach of etiquette. Besides, I was anxious what fortune 
your cousin would read me from her molten lead. She said, that 
this night would be one of great importance to me ; that I would 
rob a father of his child, and that the child would win me a 
brother." These words were not at all heard by the gentleman in 
the carriage, for he was busy giving orders to the driver, and they 
were probably not at all intended for him, for when he now bi<il 
good night to his companion, the latter awakened, as if from a 
dream. " Ah I you still here," he said ; " well, good night ! I 

leave you to the enjoyment of your dreams, and ha ! whom 

have we here ?" he interrupted himself, as the carriage drove off, 
and he perceived the young girl on her knees before him. 

Louisa — for the present we must call her so — had anxiously 
watched the movements of the gentleman. While he was con- 
versing with the personage remaining in the carriage, she mur- 
mured to herself: "Take courage, my heart, 'tis he; forget the 
repulses you have met with : his heart cannot be colder than yon- 



THE BLIND FIDDLER. 255 

der icicle, nor cannot it be harder than the stone on which he 
triads, and if a breath is sufficient to thaw the one, and tear-drops 
can soften the other, why should not his heart give way to my 
entreaties, why should not my tears soften his breast ?" 

An instant sufficed to utter these words, and in the next she em- 
braced his feet. " Have mercy, uncle," she said, or rather screamed 
with the tones of despair. " Have mercy," she said, " as you 
hope for your own salvation !" 

He answered not. One look into his face, which, though undis- 
turbed by either wrinkles or other attendants upon old age, still 
bore the stamp of many a score of years upon it ; one look into 
that face would have convinced the most unbelieving that mercy 
had not taken its abode amidst the various passions and emotions 
of hib breast. The very night air seemed a Sirocco, the very stones 
a glowing lava stream, in comparison to the indifference he exhib- 
ited. But nothing ujidaunted, she continued her efforts to soften 
that heart of stone. 

" Have mercy," she repeated ; " forget for one moment the 
wrong done to you in years gone by. Imagine a brother, dying 
for want of food, dying for want of fuel and clothing, dying for 
want of compassion from a brother, who, simultaneously with him, 
has seen the light of the world !" 

"And had your father compassion, when I begged of him, as 
you now beg of me ? Did I not tell him that he could give me 
life or death ? Did he listen to my entreaties ? No ! selfish, 
heartless, he turned from me, and selfish, heartless, will I be now, 
until he has drained the cup of misery to the very bottom !" 

Not a muscle moved while he pronounced these words; not a 
line changed in his face, as he blasted the last hopes of a despair- 
ing supplicant. After a moment's thought, he continued: "But 
thou who bearest her image in thy face, thou shalt not starve ; to 
thee I again renew the ofifer of this morning. Leave thy stubborn 
father to his fate, come to me, and for thy mother's sake, for thine 
own sake, I may provide for him, shield him from want, and ena- 
ble him to drag; out his miserable existence to its last moment." 



256 THE BLIND FIDDLER. 

" And who is to guide him through the streets, who to smooth 
his pillow for the night, and who is to read him the holy Word of 
God, as he despairs of humanity ? Shall I leave him to the mercy 
of a cold world, to the mercy of hired menials ? Shall there be 
no one near him, to prove that there is at least one being on earth 
who loves him ? No, I must not, cannot, will not desert him ! 
God will give me strength to support him and me in our trials, 
and rather than eat the bread of his heartless brother, I would 
throw myself at the feet of the midnight assassin, and ask of him 
that mercy which his own brother refuses. Let me pray to God 
that He will not withhold his grace from thee, when thou, a beg- 
gar, arrivest before His throne."' 

With these words she turned around, while he entered the hotel 
as if nothing had happened. But the i^oor girl had hardly pro- 
ceeded a few steps, when she sank exhausted to the ground. She 
might have remained so for two or three minutes, when the car- 
riage which had brought her uncle hither, turned round the corner. 
The horses on passing her shyed, and nearly upset the vehicle. 
Upon this, a young man sprang from the carriage, saw her, and, 
though irresolute for a moment, in the next he lifted her, senseless 
as she was, into the carriage, and ordered the coachman to drive 
home. 

II. 

We have somewhat anticipated our story in introducing Louisa 
thus early to the reader. We should rather have begun some 
thirty years ago, when, on the occasion of a public festival, a large 
crowd gathered at Schimmers lake, a popular place of amusement, 
near Leipzig, to participate in the regatta there to come off, and to 
enjoy the fireworks of the evening. The fishermen's festival, which 
attracted so many people to this spot, is one of a peculiar charac- 
ter. The participants, dressed in light, gay costume, assemble in 
their boats for this occasion. Each is armed with a species of 
blunt lance, and wrestling with an antagonist, he tries to push him 
into the water. A marshal is in attendance, who takes care that 
no one who has been once under water enters the lists again, and 



4 



THE BLIND FIDDLER. 257 

thus this combat lasts sometimes for hours, until the last remaining 
fisherman is declared the victor, and receives a crown of weeds and 
a prize of some value. It was at such an occasion that two 
brothers Werner, twins they were too, saved the life of a beautiful 
young lady, who with her father had ventured in a boat, and com- 
ing too near to the combatants, was upset, and only saved by the 
efforts of the two brothers, who with generous disregard of their 
own lives, hastened to her assistance. Little did they think at the 
time, that this generosity would cause the breaking of a brotherly 
bond, which had connected them closely ever since they were 
born. For the moment they had eyes and ears only for the lovely 
being whom they had saved from a watery grave. It was really a 
difficult task to decide who of the two was most entitled to the 
gratitude of the almost bewildered father, and of his still uncon- 
scious daughter. Both brothers had with the rapidity of thought 
dived under the water, when they perceived the accident, and both 
brothers supported her as she was brought to the nearest shore. 

It is not astonishing that both brothers should have been con- 
stant guests, after this incident, at the house of their fair protegee. 
Nor was it very wonderful that both brothers fell in love with the 
beautiful Pauline. She was so talented, so good, so pure, and so 
child-like, that no one who ever saw her could help loving her. 
Her father, a man of business, left her to do pretty much what 
she pleased, and her mother had died some years ago. 

We do not mean to say that the feeling of estrangement, men- 
tioned above, grew up suddenly. It came so gradually upon them, 
that they themselves did not perceive it, until it was too late to 
effect a reconciliation between them. Both loved Pauline, loved 
her deep and passionately, and no one had the courage to tell the 
other of his attachment. It was only when on some occasion 
Pauline evinced a decided preference for Henri, who perhaps was 
the most quiet of the two, that Bruno, whom we have seen already 
in the beginning of our story, acquainted his brother with his un- 
fortunate attachment. And then began a period of strife, so un- 
natural and terrific, that words can hardly be found to describe it 



258 THE BLIND FIDDLER. 

faithfully. Bruno begged and entreated, Henri raged and insisted 
upon his rights. From arguments they came to high words, from 
words they came to blows, and at last a duel was arranged, in 
which Henri fell wounded, while Bruno escaped to a distant coun- 
try. Pauline was utterly ignorant of these rencontres, and when 
she heard of Henri's being wounded, she was satisfied with his 
evasive answers. She cared too little about Bruno to feel his ab- 
sence much, and the two brothers had always studiously refrained 
from acquainting her with their disputes. Perhaps it would have 
been the best course for them to inform her of the existing diffi- 
culty, but they feared, what they might well have expected of her, 
that rather than be the apple of discord between them, she would 
belong to none. Pauline and Henri soon after were married. 

Bruno remained in foreign lands for years, and when he returned 
to Leipzig, Pauline's father had died, and she hei-self, in giving 
birth to Louisa, her only daughter, was brought to the sick-bed, 
which she never left except for the grave. It was then that the 
trials of Henri really began. AVhile his wife lived, he worked 
cheerfully, and met with every success. When she died he seemed 
to have lost in her his good genius, for everything seemed to com- 
bine to ruin him. His fortune he had lost by trusting it to the 
hands of people who thought nothing of ruining a fellow-being, if 
they could enrich themselves, and just when he depended most 
upon his own exertions for the support of himself and his child, 
his health failed him, and he had to sell property after property to 
defray the expenses, until nothing was left to him but an old violin, 
some old furniture, and a small library. He moved into more 
humble quarters, and copied music and other manuscripts, to make 
a living. Meantime his daughter grew up, and when he told her 
of the unhappy dispute between him and his brother, she said that 
she would go and see him, and that she would bring about a 
reconciliation ; but he never would let her, and thus the two 
brothers remained bitter enemies.. But as his health grew more 
precarious, he could not work as much as formerly, and as poverty 
stared at him with all its terrors, he often wished, for his child's 



sake, that he might die, for his brother had offered to Louisa an 

asylum in his own house, "forker mother's sake," as he said. We 

can now take up the thread of our story at the period where we 

left off. 

III. 

About twenty rods from the Thomas mill, and nearly opposite 
to the Schiller monument, stands a house, the mere aspect of 
which sufficiently indicates that misery has selected it as its abode. 
It fronts on the " Wall," a favorite promenade of Leipzig, and in 
its rear the dark river Pleisse winds along its sluggish course. At 
the time of our story it contrasted most strangely with either the 
crystallized foliage of the surrounding gardens, or the gay colors of 
Lurgenstein's buildings in immediate vicinity. Its walls were of a 
darkish brick color, in a dilapidated state, and the few shutters 
that remained creaked on their rusty hinges as if unearthly spirits 
congregated there and made night hideous with their music. The 
door was open, and disguised figures were continually going and 
coming; some losing themselves amidst the shrubbery, others 
entering the main city by the Thomas gate. Their anxiety to con- 
ceal their countenances made one suspect them of the most sinister 
designs, and no one is able to tell, how many have entered that 
house, who never left it again while living. The wheels of the 
Thomas mill occasionally turned up a mangled corpse, but thus far 
there was never sufficient evidence of crime, to admit of the police 
disturbing this nest of night-prowlers. 

At this moment there is but one faint glimmer of light in the 
whole house, and this proceeds from the fourth story, to which we 
will ascend by means of rotten staircases and broken ladder. We 
will enter the room from which the light glimmers. It fronts on 
the promenade, and all the furniture it can boast of, consists of two 
broken chairs and an oaken table. A bundle of straw lies in one 
corner, and a pile of old books and manuscripts fills the other. 
Gentle reader, we have not entered a murderer's den, nor are you 
likely to be stripped in this room, of the little property you may 
have with you. The room, at present, is occupied by an old man, 



260 THE BLIND FIDDLER. 

who has lit a fire on the hearth, and is evidently expecting some 
one — for, every few minutes, he turns around and listens eagerly. 
But he is doomed to disappointment. His anxiety seems to in- 
crease. He is getting more restless, and with his hands stretched 
before him, he walks from one corner of the room to the other. 
He is blind, poor old man, or he would certainly put an end to 
his anxiety by going in search of the expected one. But his local 
knowledge extends only to his own room, which he has not left for 
the last three months — partly because sickness confined him, and 
partly because he had only just rags enough about him to shield 
him from the cold nigjht air which blows throuijh the broken 
window. 

" Louisa, dear Louisa, where art thou ?" he exclaimed now, as 
the wind threw the door in the latch, but no Louisa answered. He 
must have been very hungry, for, a few bread-crumbs which he 
found on the oaken table, were devoured by him with a rapidity, 
as if he had not tasted food in months. Again he returned to the 
hearth, feeding the flame with some of the old manuscript. 

" Louisa, Louisa !" he repeated, " come sing me that sweet air 
again of which your mother was so fond ; it stills my hunger, it 
allays my thirst, it reminds me of better days !" No Louisa made 
her appearance. He turned again to the manuscripts, and from 
beneath them he drew a violin, two strings of which were broken. 
He took a bow from the corner, and seating himself in a chair, he 
played with trembling hand an air so mournful, yet so replete with 
tenderness and beauty, that it would have moved a heart of stone. 
But with the last note of the melody returned the recollection of 
his misery and the anxiety for his daughter. In vain did he call 
her by the most endearing names, in vain did he fall on his knees 
and ofi'er a prayer to the Almighty for the restoration of his child. 
She came not ; and at last, no longer able to bear such suspense, 
he resolved to go in search of her. 

Cautiously he opened the door, groped his way along the walls 
to the ladder, and — but he suddenly changed his mind. He re- 
turned to the room ; — it was only to fetch his bow and violin. 



THE BLIND FIDDLER. 261 

"Perhaps," he thought, " that by playing her favorite melody in 
the open street, I can call her to me, and thus lessen the time of 
separation." Again he bent his steps towards the ladder ; he fal- 
tered for a moment, but in the next he was on his way, and a few 
minutes sufficed to bring him into the street. He intended to 
enter the city by the Thomas gate, thence to find his way towards 
the market-place, and from there he could proceed towards the 
Hotel de Pologne. He knew that this was the road his daughter 
would choose, and he could not possibly miss her. 

It was now long past midnight, and as he wandered through the 
deserted streets, he could not find a soul of whom to inquire about 
his daughter. He soon came to the conclusion that he had lost 
his way. He felt it by the chilly blast which cooled his feverish 
temple ; he heard it by the whistling of the wind through the 
naked branches of the fir-trees, and though he immediately turned 
round, he found it impossible to retrace his steps. He played as 
loud as possible on his violin, but no one heard hira. He was far 
out of town, and the inhabitants of the suburbs did not keep such 
late hours as those of the city. His calling for assistance was 
equally unsuccessful. By this time he had entered one of the in- 
terminable alleys of the wild rose-valley, and though he heard the 
clattering of a mill in the distance, he was not able to find his way 
there. He played and wandered on, therefore, if only to prevent 
him from freezing, and moments grew to minutes, and minutes to 
hours, and still he was there in that helpless condition. He was 
now quite tired, and sat down on the snow-covered ground to rest 
himself. But no sooner had he done so, when the anxiety for his 
child returned again. He began to rave, and terrible visions 
started up before his imagination. He saw his wife, he saw his 
brother plunge a dagger into her bosom, and he all the time 
unable to hasten to her assistance. He cried for help, but he 
heard not the sound of his own voice. Then again he saw his 
daughter before him. She had flowers in her hands, and she beck- 
oned him to follow her. He now sprang up from the ground, 
22 



262 THE BLIND FIDDLER. 

played a lively air upon his instrument, danced wildly about for a 
few minutes, and then continued his dreary journey. 

When the sun rose, he arrived before the gates of Merrebury a 
madman, and since there he was refused admittance, he was 
forced to continue his wanderings. lie had no recollection of 
where he came from, and the names Pauline, Bruno, Louisa, were 
ever on his tongue. 

IV. 

And, what has become of Louisa ? Why did she not return to 
her father's house ? The reader is surely as anxious about her as 
ever her father was. 

The carriage in which she had been conveyed from the scene of 
her last disappointment, halted before an elegant mansion in 
Catherine-street. The young man who had brought her thus far, 
left the carriaofe and entered the house. In a few minutes after- 
wards he returned with an elderly lady. " Mother," he said to 
her, " if you had seen her, as I discovered her first, with that 
chiselled, marble-fi^ce of classic beauty, shining through her ragged 
garments — if you had seen her afterwards, almost under the hoofs 
of your horses, unconscious, perhaps dying, would you have had 
me do ought but render whatever assistance was in my power ?" 

His mother embraced him and kissed his brow. " But how 
came you to return so much sooner than you intended ?'* 

" To tell the truth, my compassion was already aroused, when 
the carriage stopped before the Hotel de Pologne. She was then 
sitting under a porch. Her dress bespoke her errand, and I, afraid 
of the satire of M. Werner, resolved to return thither, after he 
had entered the ball-room, and to rescue the fair mendicant from 
suffering, or perhaps death. Werner seemed to be much affected 
by that silly speech of cousin Emma, Avho, from a cup of molten 
lead, prophecied him that this night he would rob a father of his 
child, and that that child would win him a brother. He evidently 
was more moved than he wanted us to perceive. But you remem- 
ber his exclamation of astonishment, when she told him of a 
brother. He tried afterwards to laugh it away and ascribe it to 



THE BLIND FIDDLER. 263 

the singularity of the prediction, but he succeeded but indifferently. 
Yet, knowing him, I asked no further question, and it was only 
when I found this unfortunate one in the street, the horses ready 
to trample upon her, that the prediction returned to my memory 
with double force." 

The reader must not imagine that all this time was wasted in 
idle talk. Long before the young man finished his last speech, 
Louisa was lifted out the carriage and safely conveyed to a warm 
room. A physician had been sent for, and he arrived a few min- 
utes after the above conversation. After many fruitless efforts, he 
succeeded in rousing her from her lethargy, and her first words 
were — " Father, no hope from him." She then perceived the 
physician with our young friend at his side ;-— she could not ac- 
count for it. She looked around the room ; everything was strange 
to her. It seemed to her a pleasant dream. She was afraid to 
breathe, lest she should dispel it. And where was she ? Was 
she in her uncle's house 1 Had he at last relented ? And where 
was her father ? Oh, how she longed to fly into his arms — to kiss 
the tears of sorrow from his cheek ! But that last thought brought 
her suddenly back to sad reality. She sprang up from the couch. 
" Let me return to my father 1" said she to the physician, who, 
afraid that in her feverish condition, the night air might give the 
death-blow to her, gently prevented her leaving the room. " Let 
me go !" said she, as she disengaged hersdf from his hands. 
" Shall my father die of hunger ? Shall he fall a prey to wild 
despair ? — Oh, give me bread for him, and I will call upon you the 
blessings of Heaven 1" She fell on her knees and wept bitterly. 

The physician, however much suffering he had seen before, w: s 
no longer able to restrain his emotion. Tears trickled down his 
cheek, and as he wiped the perspiration from her brow, he im- 
printed an affectionate kiss upon it. Our young friend and his 
mother now entered the room, but they were at a loss what to do. 
She had given as yet no account of herself, and however willing 
they were to assist her or to return her to her father^ it was im- 
possible for them to do so. 



264 THE BLIND FIDDLER. 

Meantime tlie flood of tears had greatly relieved poor Louisa, 
and she was now better able to answer the questions of those 
around her. Delicately avoiding every question of idle curiosity, 
they simply inquired after her father's domicile, offering to bring 
him instant relief, while she should remain here to recruit her ex- 
hausted strength. 

She preferred accompanying the doctor who had volunteered to 
find her father, and since no entreaties on the part of the hostess, 
nor the threats of the doctor availed, they had to permit her to 
enter upon her pilgrimage. Alexis, her preserver, was determined 
not to remain behind. Thus we see them at last, all three, enter 
the carriage which had been waiting all this time before the door. 
They, the doctor and Alexis, were well provided with food and 
clothing, and anticipated the greatest success from their benevolent 
errand. 

V. 

The driver, following the directions which Louisa gave him, 
halted before the already described house near the Thomas mill, 
and Louisa was not slow in ascending the rickety stairs, followed 
by the doctor and Alexis. When she reached the third story, a 
strange misgiving came over her. She trembled like a leaf, and 
she would have fainted, if the doctor had not used every exertion 
to encourage her. She now climbed up the broken ladder — she 
staggered towards her apartment — she opened the door ! A few 
sp&rks were still glimmering amidst the blackened ashes on the 
hearth. A ghastly light illumined the asylum of poverty. There 
was the bundle of straw in the corner, the old oaken table, the two 
chairs, the manuscripts — everything was there as she left it, but her 
father ! — She saw no trace of him. A pang shot through her 
heart as she looked into the vacant room. " Father, dear father !" 
she called out ; but no answer reached her ears. Her father was 
gone ; but where could he be ? Could the miserable wretches be- 
low have sought his life? Thfere was no inducement for such an 
act. Could he have ventured down stairs, over the broken ladder, 
the worm-eaten steps ? Had he met with any accident ? But all 




those vague surmises could not bring back her father. She in- 
quired of the different inmates of that dreary house whether they 
could give her any information concerning him ; and when she i^- 
ceived but negative answ^ers, she gave herself up completely to 
despair. She would not listen to any of the possibilities mentioned 
by the doctor and Alexis. She would not be calmed by their as- 
surance, that every means in their power should be exerted to dis- 
cover the whereabouts of her father. Her excitement increased 
from minute to minute, until she fell, perfectly exhausted, on the 
floor. 

She was conveyed back to Alexis' house, where a nervous fever 
for a long time baffled all the skill of the physician and the ten- 
der attentions of Alexis' mother. After six weeks she was pro- 
nounced out of danger, and her kind nurse never gave her a 
moment's time for reflection or retrospection. 

Meanwhile Alexis had caused the little furniture, together with 
the manuscripts of Louisa's father, to be conveyed to his own 
house ; and, true to his promise, he used every exertion to discover 
the abode of the poor musician — but all in vain ! It seemed as if 
everything had conspired against him to frustrate his eff"orts, and 
when, shortly after, the wheels of the Thomas mill turned up 
another mangled corpse, he was satisfied that Louisa's father had 
perhaps ventured down stairs and fallen into the river. This was a 
sad intelligence he had to communicate to his fair protegee, but she 
bore it better than he anticipated, and to the combined efforts of 
his mother and himself, the excessive grief of Louisa at length 
gave Nvay. She soon became the favorite of all the inmates of the 
house, and the sympathies of Alexis became daily more and more 
enlisted in her behalf. He was her- brother, her mentor, her friend, 
and soon after, marriage consecrated the warmer aff'ections which 
had sprung up between them. 

VI. 

We must now return to the wealthy lawyer, Mr. Bruno Werner. 

On the morning after the ball in the Hotel de Pologne, he wap 

restlessly traversing his room. He lived in a palace near the ser- 
22* 



266 THE BLIND FIDDLER. 

pentine path. Luxury and comfort surrounded him. From his 
window he had a splendid view of the artificial lake and labyrinth 
benejith him, and in the distance he could see all the life and ac- 
tivity of the commercial metropolis, without being disturbed by 
the noise of the rolling vehicles or the cries of fruit-venders. The 
scene before him was at this moment truly exciting. Greeks, Per- 
sians, Russians, Poles, and Armenians, in their national costumes, 
passed before his eyes, as they transacted the business which had 
called them from distant lands. A band of itinerant musicians 
were wandering from house to house, and the music they dis- 
coursed was wafted to him on the wings of the bracing air, 
mellowed by the distance. In short, it was a scene, as Leipzig 
only can present it, at the time of its regular fairs. 

And was the rich and celebrated Werner happy ? We should 
say " No," if we were to judge by the pallor of his countenance, 
by the uneasiness of his bearing, and by the anxiety with which 
he looks around him, when the slightest sound falls upon his 
ear. The table before him was covered with savory viands and 
costly wines. He did not deign it a glance ; he had not tasted 
food since he entered the ball-room on the previous night. He 
had more serious aflfairs of which to think. First, the stranore 
prediction of Alexis' cousin ; he had never told her that he had 
a brother. Then, th§ meeting at the door of the hotel, and lastly, 
the ominous words which Louisa addressed to him, as he denied 
her petition. He thought that after all, he had, perhaps, dealt too 
harshly with his brother. As he looked back upon the days of 
his only love, everything appeared to him in a different light : he 
imagined himself in his brother Henri's situation ; he felt that 
he would not have renounced a treasure, if from that treasure 
had depended his own happiness ; and if his brother had been 
before him at that moment, he would have fallen at his feet to 
ask his forgiveness, and to offer him a share of his fortune, in 
atonement for the wrong he had inflicted upon him. He rang the 
bell, and when a servant obeyed the summons, he requested him 
to convey a note, which he was then writing, to his brother. But 



THE BLIND FIDDLER. 267 



before he had half finished it, he changed his mind. lie took his 
cane and hat and started for the abode of his brother. When 
arrived there, he was no httle disappointed by the room's being 
deserted. He heard of the inmates, that in the middle of the 
night a carriage had stopped before the door, and that a lady and 
two gentlemen had made the same inquiries, meeting with no 
better success. Discouraged he returned to his mansion ; and the 
agents he sent in search of the lost ones came back, one after the 
other, without any favorable intelligence. 

Thus passed several weeks in fruitless search, when he one day 
bethought himself of his friend Alexis, who, he remembered, must 
have seen Louisa on Sylvester-night, as she sat under the porch 
of the house next to the hotel. He had given up every hope, and 
was prepared for anything, but the agreeable surprise which await- 
ed him at Alexis' house. 

It was at the particular request of Louisa, that Alexis had not 
informed her uncle of her whereabouts, now that she was under 
so kind protection ; but when he came there, and watched at her 
bedside — when he combined his eflforts with those of Alexis and 
the physician, to discover her father, she with her noble unsophis- 
ticated heart, could not but pardon him. Nay, as the icy crust 
around his heart, which she was the first one to break, began to 
thaw, and to give way to warmer feelings, she actually began to 
respect and love him. Often in the twilight hour, she sat with 
him, telHng him of her father, how he had toiled, how he had suf- 
fered ; she told him what she knew of her mother, and often he 
would interrupt her by his embraces and caresses. 

Louisa, though now in a circle of loving friends, who anticipated 
her every wish, was not happy. The uncertainty of her father's 
fate preyed upon her mind, and the more time elapsed since his 
absence, the less would she believe that he was dead. Every car- 
riage stopping before the door brought her to the window. She 
expected to see her father come out ; she was ready to fly into his 
arms, and, of course, she was doomed to repeated disappointment. 
This constant excitement impaired her health to such a degree, 



268 THE BLIND FIDDLER. 

that the doctor earnestly insisted upon a change of scene, and an 
avoiding of every kind of excitement. She took an affectionate 
leave of all her friends, and of her uncle in particular, and in a 
few days she and her husband passed out the gate of Leipzig, on 
their way to Switzerland and Italy. 

VII. 

We must again go back a few years, and change the scene of 
our story to a little country town, not many miles from Leipzig. 
A river divides the town into two parts, the one of which spreads 
along an extensive valley, and the other seems to climb up a high 
mountain, with but little hope of its ever reaching the summit. 
An old castle overlooks the whole terrain^ and a beautiful bridge 
connects the two parts of the town. The outskirts of the city are 
formed by a thickly-shaded forest on the one side, and by numer- 
ous vineyards on the other. Ferryboats are lustily plying, during 
the summer, between the two shores, and what with the leaf-cov- 
ered avenues of the forest, and the stone-covered paths of the 
vineyards, and the quaint turrets of the castle, and the proudly 
bent arches of the bridge, a more beautiful scene can hardly be 
imagined. 

This town was now the abode of a fugitive, whom we have seen 
already at different places. One morning, the fishermen who had 
charge of the " castle ferry," were awakened from their dreams by 
the strange but beautiful sounds of a violin. It was some minutes 
before they could convince each other that what they heard was 
reality ; and half curious, half alarmed, they started from their 
beds, to investigate the cause of this unseasonable serenade. They 
perceived an old blind man, with long silver locks, wending cau- 
tiously his way along the shore of the river. Every few minutes 
he would stop, and play a mournful air on the instrument he car* 
ried with him, and then, as if he had gained new strength from 
these sounds, he would continue his journey. Their sympathies 
were easily aroused in behalf of the poor musician, and they led 
him to their hut, where they regaled him with bread and milk. 




To their greatest sorrow they discovered, that reason had deserted 
the poor songster. This only increased their sympathy for him, 
and saying that God would send, them bread for the unfortunate 
man, they determined upon retaining him in their hut. And 
truly they soon found in him a reward for their benevolence. 
Hundreds of people would cross the ferry of these fishermen, for 
no other reason than to see and hear the old man, whose strange 
advent had been heralded by a thousand busy tongues ; and every 
evening, as they counted the pennies which their visitors had hb- 
erally left behind, they looked at each other as if to say, " we have 
done well to offer him shelter and food." 

But amongst all the visitors at the ferry-house, there was not 
one who could give a clue to the musician's name or birth-place, 
and when^fter a few weeks, all the curiosity-hunters of the town 
had seen him, he was suffered to pursue uninterruptedly his daily 
promenade, to play to the birds of the forest, or to commune with 
his own dear Louisa. 

VIII. 

Three winters had now passed, which brought about no material 
change in the fate of the " blind fiddler," as he was called, save 
perhaps that he won new friends with every day, and that the fish- 
ermen began to reverence him as a saint. 

One day, towards the close of the third winter, they begged him 
not to venture too far from the house, or across the river ; because 
the ice might break and endanger his life. 

This breaking of the ice is one of the most exciting scenes 
known in the northern part of Germany. At the first indication 
of it, the booths which have been on the ice perhaps for three or four 
months past, are speedily removed ; the husbandmen bring their last 
supply of wood across the transparent bridge ; axes and saws are 
kept in readiness to divide the large sheets of ice, and cannons are 
planted along the shore to facilitate the breaking up. The men 
who are engaged in sawing or breaking the ice, are sometimes ex- 
posed to great danger, for often a sudden freshet raises the water 
several feet, and separates the already divided ice-blocks, so that 



270 THE BLIND FIDDLER. 

they, the workmen, have to run for life, if they wish to escape a 
watery grave. 

Our blind musician was probably occupied with his Louisa, 
when the jfishermen warned him, or if he heard it he forgot it 
again. The sun was just taking his last adieu from the valley, 
and lingered for a moment on the surrounding vineyards, as if to 
reconnoitre the field of to-morrow's labor, when poor Henri 
ventured on the ice, endeavoring to reach the opposite shore. He 
had reached the middle of the river, and as he stood there, his 
silver locks flying in the breeze as he told his woes to his viohn, 
he heard a sound like the distant firing of cannon, or like the sub- 
terranean noise which generally precedes the eruption of a volcano. 
A loud crash followed — he felt the ice under his feet move, and 
now for the first time he recollected the fishermen's wapning, but, 
alas! it was too late. Crash after crash came in rapid succes- 
sion ; he heard the large sheet of ice break up into fragments, 
but either he was not aware of the actual danger near him, or the 
sudden discovery of his peril had paralyzed the little mind left to 
him : there he stood, a blind, helpless being ; his silver locks 
streaming in the breeze, his life at the mercy of the treacherous 
deep. The water began now suddenly to rise, higher and higher, 
until the adjacent forest was under its surface, and the broken and 
separated pieces of ice floated through its avenues, carrying every- 
where desolation. Sometimes large masses would obstruct an 
avenue for a moment, and then again huge rafts of the crys- 
talized element would find its way into the woods, sweep every- 
thing before it, and prepare an egress for the bergs coming after. 
So the conflict would keep on for several minutes, until the cur- 
rent drove the ice back to its proper channel. 

Our hero was literally deserted. The fishermen had gone to the 
bridge, to be of assistance, or to look on, as the case might be, and 
the scene there was too exciting to permit of any thought of 
the poor musician. Cannons, planted on both sides of the bridge, 
kept up a continual firing, and the cries of the multitude would 
sometimes drown their loudest roar. Suddenly the attention 



THE BLIND FIDDLER. 271 

of the mass was directed towards a dark distant object, approach- 
ing on the ice. Various were the surmises of the crowd, as to the 
character of the strange apparition. " It is a horse," said one ; "it 
is a dog," said another. " No, it is a bear," exclaimed a third, " he 
has got himself into a trap where nothing will save him." Mean- 
while the object of general attention came nearer and nearer, and 
the surprise of the crowd may easily be imagined, as they recog- 
nised their old favorite, "the Wind fiddler j" 

The firing of cannon instantly ceased, and a council was held to 
devise the best means of saving the old man. It lead to no result; 
no one was daring enough to brave the unstable element below. 
Meanwhile the object of all their apprehension looked before him 
as unconcernedly as if he were the last person to be in danger 
from the struggle of nature going on under his very feet. A king 
could not, with more dignity, have filled a throne, tlian he stood 
there on his icy domain, regardless alike of the crowd above him, 
and of the icy bulwark which formed around him. The anxiety of 
the crowd was truly great ; they would have given anything to see 
him safe ashore, and yet no one could be found willing to under- 
make the perilous attempt. 

The cannons, near the bridge, were in charge of a company of 
soldiers, and these, obeying orders, were just about applying the 
match to the touch-hole, when their attention was drawn again in 
another direction. 

The passage over the bridge having been refused to a lady and 
gentleman in a travelling-carriage, on account of the danger they 
might incur, the two thought they might as well witness the spec- 
tacle which attracted so large an assembly. They accordingly left 
their carriage and mingled with the crowd, but no sooner had the 
lady thrown a look into the troubled waters below, than she ex- 
claimed wildly, "Help, help! — my father!" No time was to be 
lost. She saw the gunner lift the lighted match to fire the cannon 
into the ice. She disengaged herself from the young man at her 
side, tore a pole from the hands of a bystander, threw a beseeching 



272 THE BLIND FIDDLER. 

look up into heaven, and in the next moment she was seen piloting 
her way through the ice, up to her father. 

A breathless silence reigned in the just now so noisy crowd. 
She approached the ice-cake on which her father was — now she 
reached him — she took hold of his hands, and guided him, as she 
would guide a child, over the deceiving and unstable ground. 

It was an awful but glorious spectacle to see the two step from 
cake to cake, the lady now climbling on top of one, then pushing 
back another with her pole, and, with almost supernatural power, 
lift her father over a third one, which just dived into the deep, 
never to appear again. The sun, with glowing tint, illumined 
the exciting scene. But one more cake had to be passed, and they 
were saved. The hearts of the multitude beat with suspense, but 
in the next moment the unanimous exclamation, " Saved, praise to 
the Lord !" filled the air, and announced that the two had safely 
reached the shore, and as if to commemorate the wonderful event, 
the firing of cannon commenced again, and the sun, after flickering 
up once more, like a brilliant rocket, sunk behind the hills and 
clouds. 

On the shore, in close vicinity to the dangerous element, two 
persons were to be seen in fervent embrace. " Father, dear father !" 
were the only words Louisa could utter, but they were enough to 
effect a miracle. The old man, at the sound of that voice, passed 
his hand over his brow. For a moment he was lost as if in retro- 
spection, and then he clasped his daughter to his heart. " Louisa, 
thou hast returned at last ; thy absence was a long and heavy 
dream to me — but I am awake again, and nothing shall ever take 
thee again from me !" 

A flood of tears gave relief to the old 'man's emotion, and there, 
on the spot, he knelt, and thanked his Maker for the return of his 
reason, while Louisa, and Alexis, who had joined her by this time, 
stood by in mute admiration. 

The next morning's sun saw the travelling-carriage pass over the 
bridge, which during the night was freed from danger. It was 
occupied by three persons, who whiled away the time by animated 



THE BLIND FIDDLER. 273 

conversation. Louisa would in one moment kiss her father, and in 
the next embrace her husband. Towards evening they arrived at 
Leipzig, where Bruno received a brother from the hand of her 
whom he had robbed of a father, and thus was the prediction of 
Sylvester-night fulfilled. 



• 




274 


SONG 




1 

SONG. 




BY GEORGE P. MOKEIS. 

i 




I. 

Fare thee well, love — we must sever \ 




Not for years, love ; but for ever ! 




"We must meet no more — or only 




Meet as strangers — sad and lonely. 




Fare thee well. 




II. 




Fare thee well, love — how I languish j 




For the cause of all my anguish ! 




None have ever met and parted 




So forlorn and broken-hearted. 




Fare thee well. 




III. 




Fare thee well, love — till I perish 




All my love for thee I'll cherish ; 




And, when thou my requiem hearest, 




Know 'till death I loved thee, dearest. 




Fare thee well. 




w 



THE LOST BIRD. 2T5 



THE LOST BIRD. 

BY -WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS, LL.D. 

The bird that ever came with night, 

And by our lattice sate and sung, — 
Or roused us still, at morning's light, 

With silver sweetness on her tongue ; — 
That knew the art, with sweet surprise, 

To suit her notes to every hour, — 
To soothe the sad with genial sighs. 

And cheer the gay with kindred power ; — 

That, with a frolic mood could soar. 

Where realms of fancy proffer'd wings. 
The bright endowment of a shore. 

Whose meanest creature glows and sings ; — 
Or, with a solemn purpose strong, 

That rose to regions of the day, 
And, through a proud creative song, 

Show'd where new tribes and empires lay ; — 

That grew, at length, in service dear, 

Our needful minister of bliss. 
And soothing still each mortal care. 

Resolved our grief to happiness ; — 
Failed sudden, with her wonted powers, 

At morning's opening founts to come, 
And sung no more, at shut of flow'rs, 

In gushes sweeter than their bloom. 



276 THE LOST BIRD. 



In vain we wake to hear the song 

That once assured us of the day ; 
We brood, as weary nights grow long, 

But wist not of th' accustomed lay. 
And yet we feel, that voice so sweet, 

So pure and truthful, in our bird, 
Though borne from us on wing so fleet, 

Must still in happier ears be heard ! 
South CAaoLixA. 



THE SOUTH OF FRANCE. 277 



THE SOUTH OF FRANCE. 

BY CHARLES G. LELAND. 

Arles — Marseilles — Nismes — Montpelier! — those names fall 
gently and softly on the soul. Take one land with another, there 
are few, on the whole, which present such an agreeable combi- 
nation of beauty, with golden associations of the past, as the South 
of France. 

Aries — the Arelas Civitas of the ancients, rivals even Avignon 
in the number and interest of its attractions, legends and associa- 
tions ; selected by Julius Caesar as the capital of that domain which 
he had wrested from Marseilles, it speedily rose to great importance, 
and received from him the name of Julia, which Constantine after- 
wards changed for his own. It was for many years the favorite 
residence of this latter emperor, who adorned it with magnificent 
buildings, and bestowed upon it many marks of a predilection, 
subsequently increased by its becoming the birth-place of his 
daughter, Fausta the Fair. It was during his journey from Aries 
to Rome, when about to join battle with Mezentius, that the cele- 
brated apparition of the cross, with the inscription " In hoc signo 
vinceSj^ was witnessed by him ; in commemoration whereof he had 
struck, on his return to Aries, a medal, bearing on one side a 
radiant cross, and on the other the words " Arelas Civitas." 

Under Charles the Bald, Aries was elevated into a kingdom, 
Bozon being its first monarch. In the thirteenth century it v 
attained its culminating point of greatness. Possessing a vast 
commerce, and celebrated foi: its manufactures of weapons and 
jewelry, it speedily became the metropolis of the South of France. 
Archbishop Turpin, the friend of Charlemagne, died there, and was 



278 THE SOUTH OF FRANCE. 

buried in its cemetery — the most celebrated place of interment 
during the Middle Age in Europe. No wonder that its reputation 
should be so widely extended, since it was generally believed that 
the corpses deposited within its limits, were protected by Divine 
interposition against desecration by witchcraft or the hand of vio- 
lence. It was even thought that this miraculous protection began 
to operate, as soon as any person had determined that his remains 
should be laid in this campo santo ! 

Gervais de Tilbury, who wrote in the thirteenth century, gives 
in his book " De Mirabilibus Mundi," a curious legend relating to 
this belief. And be it borne in mind that he vouches for its truth, 
having himself witnessed the occurrence. 

"It was the custom for those dwelling near the Rhone, above 
Aries, to consign the coffins containing the bodies of their defunct 
friends, to its stream, placing first a sum of money beneath the 
head of the corpse, well assured that a divine guidance would keep 
them clear of all rocks or sand-banks, and arrest them in their 
course directly opposite the last house in Aries, where men were 
always in waiting to receive them. When any of the boatmen on 
the river met with one of these mysterious death-barks, they 
daluted it with the sign- of the cross, and suffered it to float onwards 
unmolested, nor would they for worlds have meddled with the 
funeral gold which it contained, for it was even beheved that the 
guardian angel of the deceased sat upon the co3Bn as steersman, 
spreading his wings for sails ! 

" Now certain graceless knaves, dwelling at JBeaucaire, fearing 
neither God nor man, beholding one fair day a stately coffin 
coming down the river, resolved to plunder it of the burial money, 
which heathenish and most vile act they incontinently effected, 
having gone forth in a boat and robbed it in the middle of the 
river. 

" What was their astonishment to see the coffin, though floating 
at the time far from any bank oi* impediment, at once stop in its 
course, and remain spinning round and round on the spot where 
this heinous deed had been committed. And there it remained 



THE SOUTH OF FRANCE. 279 



for many days, nor could any force send it one jot down the river, 
until — the strangeness of the event having excited inquiry — the 
thieves were detected, and the money restored, after which it quietly 
swam on its course !" 

This Arlesiau burying-field must have been very beautiful in its 
day, if we judge from the sarcophagi now in Paris and Marseilles. 
The proverb ^^ Ditior Arelas sepulta quam viva,'''' though applied 
at present exclusively to the supposed buried riches of the city, origi- 
nated in the great splendor of\iscampo santo. The great number 
of its tombs is alluded to in the " Orlando Furioso ;" 

Delia gran moltitudine clie uccissa, 
Fu d'ogiii parte in questa ultima guerra 
Se nevede ancor regno in quella teiTa; 
Che presso ad Arli, ave il Rodano stagna, 
Piena di sepolture e la campagna. 

Of all the wealth and splendor of this Arlesian city of the dead, 
— of all its fair sarcophagi, temples, churches, arches, tablets, and 
tombs, how little remains ! Laid waste by the Boeotian liberality 
of its different consuls and prefets, who could conceive of no more 
economical and agreeable gift to Louis the XlVth, and divers no- 
tables of a subsequent era, than the free right of plunder in their 
churchyard, the traveller now seeks in vain among a score of 
death- stones, and a mass of fragments, for some trace of its an- 
cient glory. " The dead ride fast,^'' says Biirger, *' but it is sad to 
see their memorials — those last faint strivings for a little immor- 
tality here on earth, moulding so rapidly away.'' 

But a glorious souvenir of the past remains in the Roman Am- 
phitheatre of this city, said to be one of the .best erections of the 
kind in existence. The reader who cares to be informed as to its 
past and present appearance, and become learned in the velaria 
vomitoria and hospitalia of this lordly slaughter-house, and know 
how and on what occasions it was signalized by the presence and 
patronage of Constantine, Honorius, and Childabert, may consult 
Alphonse B.'s Bords du Rhone, or my friend Frossard's learned 
work on the antiquities of Aries. I only recollect sitting there 



280 THE SOUTH OF FRANCE. 

alone, one silent sunny morning, listening to the birds chirping 
and fluttering over the gray old ruin, and striving to recall snatches 
of Troubadour poesy, and scenes from "Le dernier roi d' Aries." 
The higher the mountain the smaller the chalets on its summit, and 
it not unfrequently happens that the greater the place, the lighter 
the thoughts which it av^'akens. 

But the great, the most notable excellence, the crowning glory 
and garland of Aries, is its cloister of Saint Trophine. Let him 
whose soul is imbued with the dim mysterious beauty of the Mid- 
dle Age, linger long in the shadows of its Norman arches and 
Gothic Ogives, for in all Europe, he will not find another place so 
well calculated to awaken in him the romantic associations of the 
" distant days of king and knight." I, too, have lingered there at 
eventide, when the shadows of its quaint columns fell across the 
darkening aisles — -when the bat flitted across the quadrangle, and 
the echoing footstep of a chance passenger sounded like the tread 
of an armed knight. " Of all the religious edifices which the hand 
of the Middle Ages has placed in Aries, the most remarkable is 
this cloister of St. Trophine. 

" Christian art has here displayed all the richness of its original 
genius, all the immensity of its conception, all the resources of its 
ardent and fantastic imagination ; all the prodigies of the Middle 
Age are here accumulated, grouped, pressed into lines, and exposed 
like the paintings of old masters in the Louvre, to public view." 

This church and cloister, founded originally by the Archbishop 
Virgilius, A. D. 301, dedicated by him to St. Trophine, the first 
propagator of Christianity in Gaul, pillaged by the Saracens, and 
destroyed by the Northmen, was finally rebuilt in great splendor 
in the eleventh century. The cloister is a complete resume of the 
entire history of the Middle Age. Four galleries, each erected at 
a different period, furnish admirable illustrations of the four great 
epochs of Christian art. In the Northern gallery we have a grand 
specimen of the stern and simple Romanesque, representing ad- 
mirably the majestic purity of the early church. " In the Eastern 
gallery," says Alphonse B. " a sentiment of oriental luxury has 



i 



r 



THE SOUTH OF FRANCE. 281 

glided in among the souvenirs of antiquity." A greater originality 
of style and boldness on the part of the artist here indicates that 
change in the manners of the age, and the new developments in 
religion, which mark tlie transition era. But in the Western gal- 
lery we see the Gothic, the sentiment of the beautiful mysterious 
Middle Age in all its glory, while in the Southern, the deterioration 
of style fully illustrates the condition of the church during the fif- 
teenth century, when convulsed by dissensions, and new forms of 
belief. Yet despite these architectural differences, a certain pictu- 
resque unity pervading the whole prevents us from experiencing 
that want of harmony usually resulting from a mixture of styles. 
Here the devotee to Romantic art may revel in the contemplation 
of all the beauty and mystery of that singular era. All the per- 
sonages of sacred history stand before him in mute procession, 
living in death and animate in stone. Here ogives, trefoils, traceries 
and mouldings, are scattered with no unsparing hand, while the 
knight and jdragon — the two warriors and other emblems, found in 
every perfect Gothic church, and which the Middle Ages inherited 
from Arabic and Persian sources — emblems typifying the great 
contest of the Good and Evil principle, are combined with other 
mysterous symbols whose meaning has long since been hidden in 
the grave of some old monk or long bearded free-mason of the 
olden time. In the Southern gallery, the legend of St. Martha and 
the Tarrascon, is quaintly represented on the impost of a pillar. 
The scaly monster (the legs of an unfortunate wight whom he is 
just devouring hanging out of his mouth,) turns up his eyes in 
amiable expectancy at the fair saint, who, with uplifted girdle, is 
about to smite and subdue him. Around the galleries are placed 
many old tomb-tablets, mutilated during the Revolution — one of 
which I copied : 



H:RE€IESC:DVRANT 

SACERDOS:PCET 

0:RETCANON;C;R 

SCI;TPHMI;QI;OBIIT 

ANNO:DNI:M:CC:XIIVIRL-IV 



It was in the Abbey of Montmajor, near Aries, that the Donatists 



282 THE SOUTH OF FRANCE. 

were condemned, A. D. 314, atid Gonstantine made this celebrated 
reply to those who solicited on the part- of the heretics, a revisal of 
his opinion. 

*' Judicium meum postulant qui ipse jiidiciuM Ckristi expecto T 

Since writing these notes on St. Trophine, I have raked up a,n- 
other old legend of the Arlesian burying-ground, the authentic 
text of which is said to exist in the archives of the Vatican, whence 
it was copied by the historian Papon, in IV 79. 

" When St. Trophine had assembled all the bishops of Gaul, to 
consecrate the Aliscamps as a Christian burial-ground, no one would 
fulfil the office, on the plea of humility. Then Jesus Christ him- 
self appeared among them and blessed the cemetery. During the 
consecration, heavenly music resounded over the plain^ — so sweet 
that many vestal virgins there buried, lifted up the lids of their 
tombs to Hsten the more distinctly." 

I need only add in confirmation of the above, that the Arch- 
bishop Michael de Moneres, who in the year 1203 ad(J*-essed a let- 
ter to all Christendom, recalling this tradition, assures us that in 
his time heavenly music was frequently heard floating over this 
city of the dead. 



t^~ , — , . ..^ . 

PROMETHEUS. 283 


1 

PROMETllluS. 


BY ANNE C. LYNCH. 


Thod brave old Titan that in chains didst lie 


Bound to the rock upon Caucassia's hill, 


Who, by sublime endurance, didst defy ■ 


Imperial Jove and all his shapes of ill, i 


As I invoke thy spirit here to day, 


From the old Pagan world thou speak'st to me ; 


I hear thy voice across Time's sounding sea 


Bid me thus bear and conquer. I obey. ! 


Henceforth, like thee, I will endure ; and wait 


On Life*s bleak summit bound, without dismay. 


Then 'n thine iron car roll on thy way. 


Thou stern, relentless power that men call Fate ; 


Loose then thy bolts, thou dark and stormy sky, \ 


Thou vulture at my heart, feed to satiety ! 


i 
i 



284 CHILD AND BLOSSOMS. 



CHILD JkD BLOSSOMS. 

BY C. G. EASTMAN. 

We have laid her where, 

In the summer weather, 
Child and blossoms fair, 

Lived and died together. 
She, like them, was born 

When the spring was cherished — 
In the autumn morn, 

She with them has perished. 

Children of one birth. 

Flowers and gentle sister, 
Had she staid on earth. 

Ah ! they would have missed her 
And she would have pined, 

Sad and broken-hearted. 
By the cruel wind 

From her blossoms parted. 

Measured by a breath. 

Was their noiseless being, 
Scarcely life and death, 

In a summer seeing. 
Child and flowers have here 

Done their silent duty. 
And have gone to cheer 

Death with rarest beauty. 




SONNET : FROM THE CITY 



T MARY E. HEWITT. 



Would I were on the boundless wave with thee ! 
This city, with its turmoil and its strife, 
AVith all the throbbing pulses of its life. 

Too sternly comes between thy heart and me. 

Would I were with thee on the boundless sea ! 
There, when the adverse current would prevail, 
Love's favoring breath would fill our silken sail, 

And waft us gently o'er the immensity. 

Oh ! I am like that daughter of the sea. 
In whose frail being love infused a soul — 
Thus, through her life the immortal essence stole, 

Which gave her portion in the Deity. 

Thus I, whose spirit owns thy blest control. 

Seem nearer brought to God in loving thee ! 

285 



SONNET. 



BY E. S. CHILTON. 



Must I not love thee ? Lady, say not so — 
Teach not thy hp such cruel words to speak — 
Crush not the humble flower that doth seek 
In the warm sunlight of thy smiles to grow. 
Why should the lofty frown upon the low ? 
The strong deny their shelter to the weak ? 
And though I whine no praises to thy cheek, 
Nor swear thine eyes with tremulous lustre glow- 
I love thee not the less ; — nay, this should prove 
I love thee all the more — since I disdain 
To praise thine outward beaut}", seeming blind 
To the more noble beauties of thy mind. 
Ah ! dearest lady, might I win thy love, 
It would redeem all I have known of pain. 



THREE MIDSUMMER EVENmGS. 287 



THREE MIDSUMMER EVENINGS. 

A SKETCH. 

BY E. FANNY HAWORTH. 
EVENING THE FIRST, 

It was the sweetest evening that ever closed over a midsummer's 
day ; the path lay along a winding lane, whose high mossy banks 
were overshadowed with trees in some places, and in others skirted 
a hazel copse, where the fresh odor seemed to mingle with the 
faint perfume of the wild flowers and the " lush eglantine," as green 
and sombre leaves do with flowers, setting off their beauty. 

They were a happy party who passed along that path, if youth, 
and all the feelings that render youth delightful, could make them 
so. You would not easily meet with four more enviable beings, or- 
a pleasanter parti carre. Elinor Morland and her brother were 
conducting on her way homewards a young friend of Elinor's, who 
had been passing the day with her. 

They were to be met half-way by Kate's uncle, and they lin- 
gered involuntarily, as if by common consent. First, the two in 
advance were called to account by those who followed, for walking 
too fast ; then, they in their turn had to wait for the other two. 
It must be confessed that on these occasions, Kate's companion, 
Neville Morland, was not proof against the attractions of a branch 
of honeysuckle, or wild roses, the sweetest he had yet seen, or was 
stopped by her to listen to a thrush, which he laughed at her for 
thinking a nightingale. 

"We are almost .in sight of the turning where my uncle was to 

meet me," said Kate, with a sudden pause in her light-hearted 

24 



288 THREE MIDSUMMER EVENINGS. 

laughter at some remark of her companion's, and something very 
like a sigh. 

" But we need not hurry, Kate, we set out very early, and have 
walked desperately fast, he cannot be arrived yet ; besides, if he is 
there first, he must find it very pleasant sitting in the carriage look- 
ing at the moon, particularly if he is pensive, like Kathleen 
O'More." 

" I am afraid he would be much more likely to catch a cold, as 
she did, or the rheumatism,'' said Kate, in reply. " And see, your 
sister and Mr. Everard are miles before us." 

" Never mind, Kate. Why are you so anxious to come to the 
end of a walk, which is perhaps the last we shall take together for 
a long time, if ever ?" 

*' Ever ! What can you mean by such a word ?" And Kate^s 
cheek, glowing as it was naturally with color, became suddenly 
pale ; but she recovered herself instantly, and as she suffered him 
to draw her arm within his, she continued : " Are you not — is not 
Elinor, I mean, coming to spend the day with me on Saturday, and 
would you not be a very unkind brother not to come and fetch her 
home, and should I not be a very impolite hostess not to conduct 
my friend part of the way ? Oh ! we have had so many pleasant 
walks and excursions lately, that I cannot think what has put it 
into your head that this is the last." 

" Nor I either," replied the young man, with the unconscious 
pleasure her sudden look of alarm had given him still brightening 
his very handsome countenance. " Nor I either, unless it be a 'pre- 
sentiment^ which you, who gather forget-me-nots, look at the moon, 
and take thrushes for nightingales, ought to believe in. Now I 
never heard a nightingale in my life, never read * Lallah Rookh,' 
and prefer gas to moonlight, and yet — now don't look at me with 
that ' she never blamed him, never ' look, as if you would abuse 
me, only it is not becoming — and yet I do feel, Kate, as if I wish 
this walk were to last for ever, for I shall never be so happy again. 
You know that my leave has expired, and I shall hear to-morrow 



when and where I am to join my regiment. It may be immedi- 
ately, perhaps I may even have to set off to-morrow evening." 

Kate was silent, and her head was so bent down, that the large 
straw bonnet concealed her face as she leaned on Neville Morland's 
arm, and they walked slowly onwards. 

Neville continued, after a short pause : "That's the bore of be- 
ing in the army !" Kate looked up. " No sooner is one settled 
and comfortable, and with pleasant people, than off one- has to go, 
at a moment's notice, to some out-of-the-way place in the bogs of 
Ireland." 

'* And yet," said Kate, with a slight feeling of pique that he had 
only talked of pleasant people, "if I were a man, there's nothing I 
should like so well as being a soldier. It must be so nice to go 
from one place to another, and be made so much of in time of 
peace ; and then, if you do happen to be in battle, and do not 
happen to run away, to be made a hero of for the rest of your life." 

" Very pleasant indeed, Kate," rejoined Neville, " and I advise 
you, as the next thing to being a soldier yourself, to be a soldier's 
wife." 

The tone in which this was said puzzled Kate so much, that she 
could not help stealing a look under her long eyelashes, to see if 
he were in earnest. She was satisfied that, whatever he might 
mean to say, he did not mean to say it then, and she was relieved. 

Yes, strange as it may seem, however much a woman may long 
to have the certainty of being loved, the moment of the avowal, 
especially to a very young and timid girl, is always a moment of 
nervous apprehension, from which she would escape, and so Kate 
felt that she breathed more freely when Neville hummed the air of 

" Mount and go, 
Mount and make you ready O ! 
Mount and go, and be a soldier's leddy O !" 

" But you cannot enter into my feeHngs, Kate. It is impossible 
you can know what I suffer." 

She again looked down and breathed quickly. 



290 THREE MIDSUMMER EVEMNGS 

" To leave England just now, or at least soon. To leave Eng- 
land before the shooting season ! isn't it hard ?" 

Kate laughed to conceal her pique, and replied : " Sad indeed ; 
but that is your only regret, it seems." 

" My only regret ! Mischievous Kate, you know it is not. There 
are some few I would have think of me even if, in one of those 
pleasant engagements you talked of, without the least intending it, 
a ball should chance to put an end to my partridge-shooting for 
ever. Then, Kate, then !" he continued, in a mock-heroic style, 
putting his hand to his heart. 

" How can you be so absurd, Mr. Morland ?'' 

" Mr. Morland !" repeated he ; " yes, yes, I stand reproved and 
corrected. I ought to apologise, and most humbly I do so, for 
presuming to address Miss Norman by the familiar appellative of 
Kate. Can you ever forgive me ? but Kate, Kate is such a nice 
name ; you were never any other than Kate to me ; for though I 
have not known you long, my sister has always talked to me of 
Kate — her schoolfellow Kate, and how mischievous little Kate was, 
and how many scrapes she got into, and — " 

" Did she tell you what an angel she was to me in all my scrapes 
and distresses, and how she helped me when I was a little, ne- 
glected, sulky wretch, whom nobody cared for ? Don't call me 
Miss Norman. I could not fiincy you Elinor's brother if you did." 

" No, Kate ; dear Kate !" he replied ; then, after a pause, in 
which he beheaded with a hazel twig several tall thistles that grew 
by the hedge, he continued : " there are some few I should be 
sorry to leave ; there is Elinor, and you, Kate, and Everard, as 
good a fellow as ever breathed, with all his oddness. How do 
you like my friend Everard ? you have never told me." 

Kate did not like him at all ; but as he was Neville Morland's 
friend, she only said she did not understand him. 

" Well, I wish you did understand him, for there is nbbody in 
the world I should like you to know better ; and when I am away, 
I shall tell him to take charge of you." 

There was something in this which was more delightful to Kate^s 



THREE MroSUMMER EVENmGS. 291 

feelings than anything that had yet been said, and she felt that she 
wondered she had not liked Everard before. To feel that Neville 
considered her as a charge, was beyond anything he had ever said. 

They had now come within sight of the turning, but there was 
no carriage and no uncle to be seen. 

" Then I shall be under the disagreeable necessity of walking all 
the way to High Elms with you. What a bore !" 

" I should quite grieve to occasion you so much trouble, Mr. 
Morland," said Kate, trying to look affronted ; " but let us hope 
better things : I hear wheels now round the corner." 

" A baker's cart, depend on it, or the apothecary's gig. No 
hope for me to escape the painful duty, or to smother the re- 
proaches of my conscience if I neglect it." 

Kate laughed and blushed at the looks so opposite to the words 
which accompanied this speech, and by this time the four were 
met together at the end of the lane, looking in vain for the car- 
riage which was to convey Kate to her home. 

I was wrong to say they were looking for the carriage, although 
they waited for it ; for as the little party stood together silently, 
there was not a look directed to the road towards High Elms. 
Elinor, with her untied bonnet falling back, and her light curls es- 
caping from under it, with her head raised upwards, looked at the 
moon. Everard looked earnestly at Elinor's face. Kate looked in- 
tently on the dusty road, on which she was inscribing sundry hiero- 
glyphics with the point of her parasol, and Neville gazed with 
considerable attention on the point of the parasol in question, and 
also on the very pretty foot which occasionally assisted its ma- 
noeuvres. 

He was the first to break the silence. 

" I am trying in vain to ascertain," he said, "whether Miss Nor- 
man is making a model of St. Michael's Mount, or a plan of a 
fortress of Gibraltar, or the pass of the Simplon." 

" You build on sand 1" said Everard, in his low, quiet voice, but 
with that scarcely perceptible expression of contempt which was 
blended sometimes with his softest tones. 

24* 



292 THREE MIDSUMMER EVENINGS. 

" Yea, and less than sand," said Neville, imitating bis grave 
manner ; " for verily it is but dust. But, Elinor, dear, it is certain 
that Miss Norman is clean forgotten by all her friends and rela- 
tions, and she must forthwith decide, either to go back with us, or 
allow me to escort her home to her undutiful uncle. Which shall 
it be?" 

Elinor said : " We had all better go on with Kate, and perhaps 
we shall meet Mr. Norman's carriage." 

" No, no, Elinor," said her brother, " you shall walk no farther, 
you look pale and tired. Everard shall take you home, and I will 
escort Kate." 

" This arrangement is perfect," said Everard, with animation. 
" Elinor Morland, do not refuse your vote — come !" and he would 
have taken her hand, but Elinor had gone up to her friend Kate, 
to make some important arrangements before they parted, relative 
to a pattern to be lent, and some music to be copied, 

" Isn't she pretty ?" said Neville to his friend. 

" Pretty ! how low a term for such a creature ; she is like no- 
thing earthly." 

" Well, well ; but in the language of mortals." 

Everard went on. " How the moon lights up her glossy curls ; 
there is nothing so graceful as long fair hair." 

" Long fair hair ! why it is as black as ebony, and braided flat. 
Ah ! I see. You mean my sister," and his brow darkened. 

Everard was not a person to be easily disconcerted, but a flush 
mounted to his pale forehead as he turned away. 

The two girls had made their brief farewells, but as they stood 
lingering, neither willing to rejoin their respective companions, 
Neville came up to them. 

" Before we part," said he, with mock gravity, " I have a pro- 
posal to make. We are agreed, I believe, that this is a remarka- 
bly pleasant evening, and that we have had, and are likely to have, 
a remarkably pleasant walk. As a memento of this day, here are 
four roses " 

" Honeysuckles you mean, brother," said Elinor. 



THREE MIDSUMMER EVENINGS. 293 

" Well, honeysuckles, it is all the same. Let us each take one, 
and keep it for sentiment's sake. Elinor, I know you like such 
things — and every Midsummer Day, we will make a vow to take it 
out, water it with our tears, and put it away again, as a remem- 
brance of this happy day." 

He distributed the four flowers, and Everard, having seen that 
Elinor put hers to her lips, exchanged his own with her. 

The party then separated ; but scarcely had they lost sight of 
each other, when Everard and Elinor were overtaken by JSTeville re- 
turning at a brisk pace, and in no happy humor. The carriage and 
the uncle having been met, he had been obliged to give up his 
charge. 

" There is no saying what the turn of Fortune's wheel may pro- 
duce," said Neville, as he walked by the side of his sister and his 
friend, homewards ; " but, certainly, if it had not been for the 
wheels of that confounded rumbling old phaeton, which one may 
hear a mile off, I should have proposed to Kate, and had her 
answer by this time. However, I can ride over to-morrow." 

Elinor was too much used to the half-in-jest, half-in-earnest 
manner of her brother, to give much heed to this. And what- 
ever Neville's intentions might be, he little knew that the letter 
was already lying on his table at home which would oblige 
him to depart for Ireland the next day, to join his regiment, 
and that, perhaps, many another Midsummer Day would pass 
before he saw Kate again. " Do you think she would accept 
me, Elinor?" 

" An unfair question," replied she, " but I hope you will 
not try, for I certainly should take the part of all cruel parents 
and guardians in such a case. I should expect a better match 
for my little Kate, than a Cornet of Dragoons, with a long tailor's 
bill for a rent-roll, especially as she has nothing herself." 

" I did not think you were so mercenary," said Neville. " I am 
totally disgusted at such utter want of romance, sentiment, and 
poetical feeling — and from you, too, Elinor ! I abjure such worldly- 
minded company," and with these words, Neville sprang over a 



294 THREE MIDSUMMER EVENINGS. 

stile that led to a shorter way home, and left the others to pursue 
their walk alone. 

Elinor looked after him, and then said in a low voice : " And 
do you too agree in the character which Neville gives me ?" 

Everard looked at her, but would not trust his thoughts with 
utterance. 

" Yes, certainly," he said at last, smiling, " for here is a proof 
of it. You have dropped the flower, which was to have been the 
memorial of this most sweet evening. Let me restore it to you ; 
perhaps you do not know the emblem of the flower your brother 
took by chance ?" 

Elinor did remember that it was liens d'amour^ but she only 
said as she took it : 

"I thought you were too wise and too learned to mind such 
nonsense, Mr. Everard — such trifles !" 

" Trifles, Elinor ! Can you so name the most precious things, 
the deepest interests of our lives ! If causes are to be judged 
by their effects, who shall call that a trifle, upon which perhaps 
depends a thought that is to be the happiness or misery of our 
life ?" 

He said this with an earnestness unlike his usual manner ; then, 
with more calmness : 

" We have known each other long, Elinor ; and we have had 
many walks and conversations together. How can I expect you 
to feel this evening more worthy of remembrance than many 
others — if, perhaps, any are so with you ?" 

Elinor knew by his tone that the contemptuous smile was again 
on his lip, and, softened as she was by his previous manner, she 
perhaps felt it the more keenly. 

" We have indeed been a long time acquainted, Mr. Everard," 
she replied, "too long for me ever to hope to understand you 
better than I do now. We have always been very good friends ; 
yet sometimes you seem vexed with me when I least expect it, 
and least wish it, and least understand why it is so. Do let us 



THREE MIDSUMMER EVEOTNGS. 295 

be friends — I mean, don't let trifles — " slie grew embarrassed ; 
and he said with a vehemence unlike his usual manner : 

" Miss Morland, I know what you would say, though you know 
not how to express it. You would say : ' AVilliam Everard, pre- 
sume not beyond my friendship. Think not, because I am too 
gentle to show dishke to any one, that I shall ever regard you 
with any feehngs save indifference.' " 

Elinor had withdrawn her arm from his, and hstened with as- 
tonishment to this strange speech from her quiet and philosophical 
friend. She had, as she said, known William Everard longer than 
she could remember ; the intimate friend and schoolfellow of her 
brother, though several years his senior, he had been a frequent 
guest at her father's house. She had looked on him as a superior 
being. His taste, his accomplished mind, had guided her own 
judgment in all things ; at the same time there was about him a 
reserved and almost cynical manner that precluded intimacy. 
Elinor had not much of the vanity of conquest, and she never 
thought of the possibility of Everard being in love with her. 

It seemed so natural to her that he should be interested in all 
she did, and that she should feel when he expressed his thoughts 
and opinions, that she never could have thought differently, and 
that her performance of every action should always be with refer- 
ence to his liking or disliking it. 

This evening, for the first time, his usually cautious manner had 
^ven way, and though he had not told her so, she had felt the 
first consciousness that he loved her — a consciousness, from whose 
bewildering power she had scarcely awakened, when her ear was 
wounded by tones almost of displeasure. She could not speak, 
lest her tears should flow ; and he continued : 

" You do not answer, Elinor, and I have given words to your 
thought. You are offended at my presumption, my madness in 
loving you. I knew it would be so, and that is one reason I have 
so studiously concealed my feelings ; I knew you only suffered me 
as one indifferent. Will you banish me now ? Speak, Ehnor ! — 
but I will not ask, when I can hope nothing from your words. I 



296 THREE MIDSUMMER EVENINGS. 

should rather say, keep silent, and let me dream on, and solace my 
solitary hours with visions of what might be, as I have done longer, 
Elinor, than you could perhaps believe or think of. Bear with me, 
Elinor, and if you bid me wake to sadness and hopelessness, if you 
tell me to dream no longer, let it at least be gently and kindly — 
I could not bear your scorn." 

Ilis voice trembled with emotion, but the strong effort to con- 
trol it, the haughty self-contempt at having betrayed his feelings, 
marred the effect of his words. 

Everard was an essentially English character. The jealous tim- 
idity with which he guarded every approach to feelings too sensi- 
tive for every-day wear, and " for human nature's daily food," 
gave the appearance of coldness to the tenderest heart that ever 
beat in human breast. He w^as undemonstrative in manner and 
gesture, and hated every species of display. Phrenologists would 
have said he wanted Self-esteem and Hope. 

When he told Elinor of his love, he had not the most distant 
thought of asking hers in return, and had wrought himself, as he 
continued speaking, into a kind of anger against her at having 
forced from him such an avowal. The words " I could not bear 
your scorn," had such a volume of bitterness in their accent, 
that Elinor, gentle as she was, and softened as were her feelings, 
raised her head with a flush of pride as she repeated : " Scorn !" 

They were walking side by side, but she had dropped his arm 
before. He continued silent, and she spoke no more. It was the 
turning-point of her destiny, every step of that silent walk was 
taking them farther from each other. She longed for Everard 
to speak again, to plead, only to ask her to love him ; but he 
spoke not. She stole a glance as she walked by his side, measur- 
ing her step by his, but his head was averted. 

They had reached the entrance to her father's shrubbery in this 
way, and in the narrow winding path Elinor walked on first. As 
they approached the house, she walked more and more quickly, 
for she felt the silence stifling, and tears were swelling under her 
eyehds. 



THREE MIDSUMMER EVENINGS. 297 

Just as they emerged from the. trees, Everard darted forward 
and took her hand. He seemed struggling for words — his lips 
trembled. 

" You ought to scorn me, Elinor, for I am deeply wrong, weak, 
and Avorse than weak ; but remember, Elinor, when you blame 
me hereafter, that I have not asked your love. It is too late to 
conceal my own." 

Elinor's hand trembled in his, and she looked timidly in his 
face. There was so much anguish, such intense suffering in his 
countenance, that every shadow of pride faded, and she met his 
gaze with a look in which all was told and answered, and in 
that eloquent silence, the reserve of years was melted from 
their hearts. 

" Ehnor ! my own Elinor ! is it possible, can you forgive me ? 
can you love me ?" 

" You do not deserve I should tell you so," said Elinor, as 
after a pause she raised her blushing face from his shoulder. 

" I never, never can deserve so great a happiness, dearest Elinor; 
still I am deeply to blame. I have told you the long-cherished 
secret of my soul, and I had determined not to do so, for I cannot 
seek your hand. I would not ask you to share my obscure for- 
tunes. If I am proud, Elinor, in this, it is that I am too proud of 
you and for you, to give you so poor a lot. No ! you are one 
formed for all that is best and brightest in this world ; your feet 
should only tread on velvet and flowers. Oh, that I could tell you 
in words w^hat I have felt without daring to utter, when ray own 
bitterness of heart has broken forth in what seemed, perhaps, un- 
kind or angry words. To be near you, only to know your presence, 
has been like the feeling one has in hearing sweet music. It 
seemed as if the time I was with you were one long sigh, and that 
my being w^ould end when it was over. And yet I have often 
parted from you with a determination to conceal my feelings, which 
I could only control by an appearance of the harshest indifference. 
Tell me, have you not often thought me a most wayward, sullen 
bein^?" 



298 THREE MIDSUMMER EVENINGS. 

" I have sometimes thought you reserved, and sometimes un- 
happy, and I have wished that I dared to ask you why. Do you 
remember when one day you came and found Mr. Arnold, or some- 
body, I forget who, hstening to my singing, how you abused the 
song and the composer too, and wondered I could have the bad 
taste to sing it ?" 

" And do you remember, Ehnor, the day we looked over Retzch's 
outlines of *The Bell,' you turned over the leaves too quickly, 
and I could have lingered over one of them for ever ?" 

" But you did not reproach me then^' said Elinor. 

Even when the evening walk had been protracted to its latest 
limits, Everard and Elinor continued to converse. It seemed as if 
there were no end to the thousand things they had mutually to 
reveal of their long reserve. They were like two friends who had 
travelled apart in far-off countries, now first met after years of ab- 
sence. Elinor, young and enthusiastic, never dwelt on the future. 
It was enough for her that she felt the first pure and deep joy of 
loving and being beloved. That Everard was poor, or that he had 
not even asked her to be his, was nothing. She only felt that he 
loved her, and her bhss was complete. 

The branch of honeysuckle was laid on her pillow, and her 
dreams that Midsummer Night were sweet as the perfume of the 
flower. 

EVENING THE SECOND. 

On the afternoon of a sultry summer's day, an English party 
were toiling up the ascent of the Righi, in order to be there at 
sunset, according to the established custom of sight-seeing trav- 
ellers. 

And truly it is worth a pilgrimage to see the glories of a sunset 
on the Alps. The volumes of clouds, tinged with innumerable 
hues, that collect and seem to exult over the decline of day. The 
snowy peaks, tinted with every shade of rose and gold color, 
changing every instant as they catch the sun's last slanting rays, 
form a scene of surpassing glory. 

The- party consisted of two ladies and a young man, with a 



THREE MIDSUMMER EVENmGS. 299 

courier and a guide. The two ladies were in ckaises-a-porteurSy 
this being the least fatiguing method of ascent. 

It was a bridal party ; and according to the usual method of 
being married and settled, they had started from the door of St. 
George's, Hanover Square, as fast as four post-horses could carry 
them, and as if the impetus given by the marriage service had 
driven them forth into the wide world under a spell of perpetual 
motion. 

It would almost seem that the phrase used by an old lady of 
my acquaintance, to express the desirable circumstance of being 
" married to a carriage,'" were no metaphor, but the simple truth. 

Our present party could have contrived to be tolerably happy, 
even without the additional enjoyment of rattling over half Europe 
in a travelling carriage. So at least could the bride, who was 
quiet, modest, sensible, and pretty, too good-tempered to mind the 
contretemps of bad inns and rough roads, and too rich to sigh over 
spoiled gowns and crushed bonnets, even though they were Devy's 
chef-d^oeuvres. And so could the bridegroom, who was all happi- 
ness and devotion, and scarcely recovered from his surprise at his 
own good fortune, at having wooed and won in the short space of 
six weeks a wealthy heiress, and, strange to say, a lovely and amia- 
ble girl also. 

Perhaps the person most to be benefited by the "change of air 
and scene," which is considered so infallible a remedy in all cases 
where nothing else will do, was the bridegroom's sister, and in the 
delicate pale girl who reclined languidly in the chair, which seemed 
scarcely of any weight in the hands of the men who bore it, those 
who had seen her a year ago, would hardly have recognised EHnor 
Morland. 

As they proceeded up the steep but beautiful ascent, in which 
every turn brought before them new and varied points of view, 
she seemed to forget the melancholy that hung about her in de- 
lighted admiration of the scene. 

Yet her pleasure rarely expressed itself in exclamations, and as 
her brother was sometimes riding, and at others walking by the 

25 



300 THREE MIDSUMMER EVENINGS. 

side of his young wife, she felt an enjoyment in being quite alone 
amidst the glorious scenery with nothing to interrupt her thoughts. 

Certainly travelHng may be an outward change, but' if the ob- 
ject of it be to distract the attention from one fixed subject, nine 
times out of ten it is a failure. What is there so conducive to the 
indulgence of reverie and dreamy thoughts as the passive existence 
of being carried over large tracts of country, even if new and va- 
ried, for hours, with nothing to interrupt us, and without any exer- 
tion of our own. Even the least meditative persons have often been 
heard to acknowledge that they never can talk in a carriage, and 
are more disposed to think then than at any other time. 

Then, if the design be that some beloved one should be forgot- 
ten, who does not know that the strangeness of all we meet does 
but drive back the heart to cling more closely to the object en- 
shrined within ? That every new feeling, wonder, admiration, even 
the simplest observation called forth, we long intensely to impart 
to the absent ; we fancy how they would see and feel on every oc- 
casion that interests us, and the regret of absence falls more intol- 
erably upon us : " Voyager c'est le plus triste de tous les plaisirs," 
says Madame de Stael. 

Neville Morland's excellent match, as it was considered, with the 
only daughter of a rich West Indian, turned out more fortunately 
than it almost deserved. For Maria Lovaine, though possessed of 
no very striking qualities, was good-humored and affectionate ; and 
if Elinor felt in her society the want of an understanding and sym- 
pathizing friend, Maria was at least wiUing to be all to her that she 
could. She knew that Elinor was out of spirits and ill, evils of 
which she had but a very distant idea from any experience of her 
own. She also knew that Elinor was, in some way of other she 
could never comprehend, very clever, but above all, that she was 
Neville's very dear sister, and she loved as well as admired her, 
without venturing to intrude more into her confidence than was 
desired. 

They arrived at the chalet called the Righi Kulm, just as the 
diversity of guests who had come to pass .one night there so as to 



THREE MIDSUMMER EVENINGS. 301 

take in the sunset and sunrise were pouring forth to view the sight 
they had mounted so high to see ; nearly blinding themselves with 
their strenuous endeavors not to lose sight of the sun for a mo- 
ment. 

Our travellers walked to the margin of the precipitous ledge 
which overhangs the beautiful lake and town of Zug. The Righi, 
though not considerable in height, commands, from its position, a 
better view of the Oberland Alps than any other of the generally 
visited mountains. Elinor remembered that she had heard Ever- 
ard describe it, and that she had felt many indistinct wonderings 
if she should ever visit the scene ; and that she was here, and that 
he would not even know it, struck painfully on her heart. 

Maria complained of the cold mountain air, and they went into 
the low, long room, which was now filled with people actively en- 
gaged in refreshing themselves at the table d'hote supper, which is 
always served after sunset. The ladies were glad soon to retire, 
especially as after supper the rattle of a wretched piano-forte, 
played by a German student, was added to the jargon of various 
tongues, while his companion and a dapper Frenchman proposed 
waltzing, and finding neither Elinor nor Maria were to be prevailed 
upon, although they betrayed as little surprise as possible at being 
asked, they were more successful with the daughter of a Polish 
Count and her governess. 

Neville, looking on, was rather amused at the scene, till he was 
accosted by a stout man, en blouse, with a particularly German- 
looking travelling cap, whom he had not before recognised as a 
countryman. 

*' Fine country this here. Sir ; been here long ?" 

Having made a slight reply, his unknown friend continued the 
attack. 

" Not a great traveller, I s'pose. Sir ? Now I am — been to Berne, 
been to Geneva — been up the Rhine, all along the Danube. Cap- 
ital steamer there. Sir, and there is not an inn I don't know. No- 
body ever cheats me, they take me for a foreigner. Now, Sir, I'll 
give you a httle advice. I'll tell you exactly what route you ought 



302 THREE MIDSUMMER EVENINGS. 

to go. Been to the GeesehacJc^ Sir ? Fine fall that ; as handsome 
a f\ill as I'd wish to see. Then there's the Hitckenback, and I don't 
know what all besides. But now, what's your plan at the hotels ? 
I dare say you pay just what they ask you. Now I don't ; I make 
a bargain, and if they won't take me, why then they leave it alone. 
I says, says I to the garsong : " Gar song vous faut traiier moi 
bien, ou je pas payer. Vous faut prenez-garde a vos P et a vos 
Q ou je vous rien donner.^ Then they take me for a Frenchman." 

Neville laughed at his new acquaintance, who continued : 

" Oh, I saw directly you had not travelled, by the way your 
ladies snubbed the Frenchmen when they asked them to dance. 
Now I always speak to everybody, let 'em be who they will, just 
in an affable way, and they always take me for one of themselves." 

Having had almost enough of his companion's affability, Neville 
went to the window, and finding it a beautiful moonlight evening, 
he went to ask if either of the ladies would walk out, and Elinor 
gladly obeyed the summons. Maria was rather fatigued, and the 
brother and sister walked out together in the keen mountain air. 

The moon was high and bright, and Elinor felt refreshed and in- 
vigorated by the pure atmosphere around her. 

Their conversation turned on the many events of the last year. 

"Is not this Midsummer Day?" said Neville. "Who would 
have thought, Elinor, this day last year, when we were all walking 
to High Elms that evening, who would have thought on this day 
we should be here, and — and all that has happened since !" 

Elinor merely assented, for her own thoughts were busy with the 
past. Neville continued, after a pause : 

" Poor Kate ! I hope she did not think anything serious of all 
my foolish speeches ; but she must have known it was only a flir- 
tation ; don't you think she did, Elinor ?" 

" It is hardly fair to ask me, now that you are a married man," 
said EHnor, " for I shall not gratify your vanity by telling you that 
Kate was inconsolable, or that sKe fainted and went into hysterics 
when she heard you were married." 

" No, but seriously, Elinor ?" 



THREE MIDSUMMER EVENINGS. 303 

" Well then, seriously, I did fear that my dear Kate had been 
too ready to take in earnest what Itknew you only meant a flirta- 
tion, and I therefore did my best—" 

" To put me out of her good graces ; thank you, Elinor." 

" No, to put her on her guard ; but had the acquaintance been 
longer, perhaps I might have had a more difficult task. As it hap- 
pened, I was most thankful to find the impression had not been very 
lasting. Kate's feehngs are lively, but versatile, and a visit to an 
aunt at Cheltenham, where she was the reigning belle, effected a 
complete cure. Now, are you not rather disappointed ? But I 
wrong you, my dear brother ; I am sure you can enter into the 
feelings which made me tremble to announce your marriage to her, 
and the delighted relief I felt at her receiving the intelligence, not 
with indifference, but just as she would have done had you been 
only known to her as my brother, and she had only to rejoice with 
me." 

" I am very glad of it," said Neville, very gravely, and he was 
silent for a short time. After a few moments, he resumed : " And 
now, dear sister, since we are on the subject of confidences, will 
you tell me what on earth was the cause of the misunderstanding 
between you and Everard ? Of course, when he was a briefless 
barrister, with nothing to depend on but his profession, you be- 
haved very properly, and like a sensible young lady, to refuse him 
when my father desired you. But if you really liked him, which 
I thought you did once, what on earth could prevent you accept- 
ing him when he came into his cousin's property so unexpectedly, 
who seemed to have died just in the very nick of time, on purpose 
to oblige him ? I do not wish you to tell me if it is unpleasant ; 
but I confess I should hke to know the truth." 

"lam afraid you will blame me," said EHnor, " but I cannot 
help it now. I will tell you the story as well as I can." 

" I cannot help fancying," said Neville, " that between Everard, 
who is so over-sensitive, and you, who do sometimes take odd little 
notions into your head, there may be some misunderstanding which 
may yet be cleared up." 

25* 



304 THREE MIDSUMMER EVENINGS. 

" Never, brother ; never !" said Elinor, with a sigh. " I believe, 
at least, I think, that William |]verard once loved me, but now 1 
do not desire that he should. I have thrown away my happiness, 
and it is too late." 

" But will you let me hear how it really happened ?" 

Elinor took courage, and began her story. 

" You know Lady Masterton's was the only family in the 
neighborhood, where Everard visited besides our own, and that 
I met him there on a visit after he had been refused. How 
often did I regret he had asked me! It was so hard to lose so 
good and dear a friend, one whom I had been used to look up 
to and confide in, even from my childhood — I would gladly have 
expressed this to him, but I saw he scrupulously avoided all op- 
portunities of speaking to me, and seemed, as I fancied, piqued 
and offended. And then that provoking Mr. Ashworth came 
and annoyed me by attentions, which I am sure he only paid 
me to amuse himself at the expense of Lady Masterton's jealousy 
for her daughter. Everai'd only stayed one day after he came, 
and in that short time a thousand little instances of seeming 
preference to Mr. Ashworth occurred, which nothing but the most 
provoking chance occasioned, and which I could have explained 
in one moment to Everard, but I had no opportunity, and he left 
us quite suddenly. 

" I was engaged to go over again to the Mastertons ; but wben 
they told me Everard might be there, my father, who heard the 
announcement, made me send an excuse. What annoyed me 
the most was, that Kate Norman, who was there, told me that 
everybody fancied, Everard amongst the rest, that I was engaged 
to Mr. Ashworth, and would not beHeve her when she contra- 
dicted it. I was so very unhappy then, I did not think it possible 
I could have been more wretched ; and yet that was not the worst. 
The Mastertons, though they are very kind, and of course cannot 
help what they hear, yet they always contrive to have something 
disagreeable to tell one. They talked a great deal about the odd- 



THREE MIDSUMMER EVEJS^INGS. 305 



hess of Everard's temper, and that, clever as he was, he seemed to 
think Kate Norman the only person worth talking to." 

"And so you were jealous, Elinor ; was that the case ?" 

" No, brother, but I did wish that if I were to think Everard 
preferred any one to me, it might not be my own dear Kate. 
Well, the Mastertons were very good-natured ; but as I had never 
confided to them the cause of my not wishing to meet Everard, 
they merely told him that I had declined their invitation, and he 
took it, I suppose, as another proof of dislike. Then came his 
unexpected accession of fortune ; and what do you think good 
Lady Masterton took into her head ?" 

" Something much deeper than you were aware of, my dear 
Elinor. I know her well." 

" Why that it would be a delightful match for Kate Norman, 
and she would do her best to promote it. With this view, she 
made a party at Easter at the Grove. Everard was invited, and 
Kate, the Partingtons, Mr. Ashworth, one or two others, and my- 
self ; of course I did not go." 

" Why of course, Elinor ?" 

"Dear brother! when Everard had avoided all explanation, 
and had been satisfied with the idea of my disliking him when 
he was poor, how could I undeceive him now he was become a 
man of fortune — a grand x>arti, as Lady Masterton called him ? 
No, the time for explanation was past ; I would not in any way 
seek it; but though my decHning the invitation could not have 
caused much disappointment, another also failed them. Everard 
would not go. 

"The next day, Kate and Miss Masterton rode over to me, 
and persuaded me to go back with them. I went, and the 
next day there was a dinner-party, and dancing in the evening. 
I played waltzes and quadrilles, which I preferred to dancing, 
till they persuaded me so much, that I stood up with Mr. Ash- 
worth. Just at that moment, who should arrive, to the great 
astonishment of everybody, but Everard. My involuntary pleas- 
ure at seeing him, soon gave way to the annoyance of knowino- 



306 THREE MIDSUMMER EVENINGS. 

what inference he would draw from my being again with Mr 
Ashworth, whom I had hterally neither seen nor spoken with 
since we had met in Everard's presence. 

" I, who knew so well every turn of Everard's countenance, 
scarcely dared to read the expression of utter disdain with which 
he returned Ashworth's bow and my confused greeting. He al- 
most instantly turned away and sought Miss Masterton, then 
Kate Norman, to whom he appeared to pay great attention. I 
scarcely knew what I said or heard, I was so wretched, and 
was glad to take refuge again in playing quadrilles. Kate took 
an opportunity of saying to me : 

" ' Pray, pray, Elinor, take care what you do and say — the 
Mastertons are treacherous ; I know them better than you do. 
I have heard a speech, not intended for my ears, from Miss 
Masterton to Mr. Everard. They are trying to set him against 
you. Do not trust them.* 

" I did not listen to her, for the vile thought came into my 
head that she might be false. 

" T had taken off a ring I generally wore, and laid it on the 
piano while I played. I forgot to put it on again when I rose 
from the piano, and did not miss it, till I saw Mr. Ashworth, 
who was born to be ray torment, had it on his finger, and that 
Miss Masterton, who was leaning on Everard's arm, was in the 
act of remarking and rallying him about it. 

" Everard knew the ring well, and I felt he would take it as 
a confirmation of all he had heard. I took courage to go across 
the room and ask for my ring ; but the moment I approached the 
group, Everard walked away, and Miss Masterton laughed and 
went away too, so that Mr. Ashworth and I remained alone, as 
if left by common consent. I beheve I never felt before so angry, 
as when I asked him to restore the ring, and he affected great 
eagerness to keep it. Lady Masterton came up to us with one of 
her bland smiles, and said : 

"'What, quarrelling! and Elinor in a pet. For- shame, 
naughty child !' 



" Then, to my greater annoyance, she raised her voice as Ever- 
ard was passing down the room, and said to him : 

" * Mr. Everard, come and help me to keep the peace between 
two obstreperous young persons, who are quarrelling about a 
ring.' 

" He could not avoid obeying her summons, and said quietly, 
but with bitterness : 

" ' I cannot flatter myself with possessing any influence now 
over either party.' 

" Lady Masterton then went on in a bantering tone, which pro- 
voked me, because I was obliged to try to smile when I could 
scarcely speak lest I should burst into tears. She ended by 
making a decree to separate the combatants, and as a punishment, 
that Everard should immediately stand up to dance the next quad- 
rille with me, and Ehza Masterton with Mr. Ashworth, who made 
pretended grimaces of dislike to the arrangement. Upon which 
Miss Masterton, with a toss of the head, cried : 

" ' Oh ! Mr. Ashworth, I do not wish to force you to dance with 
me!' 

" Lady Masterton said, smiling, to me : * In consideration of its 
being the Jirst offence,' with a very meaning look, * I shall allow 
the culprit a choice of punishment. Which of these two gentle- 
men will it please you to take as a partner in the next quadrille V 

"I hardly dared to look at Everard ; I felt that all this badi- 
nage must be as intolerable to him as to me. 

" Ashworth dropped on one knee, in a theatrical attitude, pre- 
senting me the disputed ring, which Miss Masterton seemed to 
think very amusing. I attempted to go away, but they would 
not let me. Everard stood by my side, and I heard him say in his 
old voice and manner : ' Elinor !' I ventured to look up in his 
face, and I could not help giving him my hand, for I felt sure, yes, 
even now I feel sure that he loved me then as well as ever. In- 
stantly, however, this dream of happiness vanished ; I heard Lady 
Masterton whisper to him, as I took his arm, and her usually sweet 
voice sounded like the yell of a demon in my ears. 



308 THREE MIDSUMMER EVENINGS. 

" ' I congratulate you ! see the power of ten thousand a-year ; 
poor Ashworth has only four !' 

" I should have been sure this insinuation would have fallen un- 
heeded on Everard's ear, and that he would have disdained a sus- 
picion so unworthy of himself and of me, but I felt him start, as 
my arm rested on his, and a chill came over my own heart. I 
knew he had been told, I refused to meet him even but a few 
weeks before, that he supposed me engaged to another, and I 
could not endure the idea of making an apparent change in his 
favor now, and making the explanations to him which I had been 
so anxious to do before. The quadrille passed in a most miserably 
constrained conversation. When it was nearly over, Everard said 
to me : 

" * Miss Morland, I did not hope even for this opportunity of 
speaking to you, forced upon you as it is ; but I have one request 
to make, I cannot trust myself to make it here, and I never see 
you unless so surrounded — meeting as we have done of late is 
more than painful — I must leave here again early to-morrow. 
May I write to you before I go, and will you answer me sincerely, 
candidly, as Elinor would in other times have answered V 

" ' I will,' I said ; ' but why must you go to-morrow V 

" I was sorry for having said this, for he immediately rophed : 

" ' Can you wish me to stay now, when my presence but lately 
was so hateful V 

" The odious ten thousand a-year came to my recollection, ^nd 
I was glad when at that moment Eliza Masterton came up with 
her partner, saying : 

" ' Now, I suppose, we may be allowed to be released from our 
engagements. Here, Miss Morland, I restore to you my late un- 
willing partner, although you seem not in such a hurry to get rid 
of yours.' 

" Everard started up, and as I saw him move towards the door, 
Lady Masterton immediately followed him, and putting her arm 
in his in a confidential manner, she took him to look at a new 



THREE MIDSUMMER EVENINGS. 309 

picture in the next room. I saw them in earnest conversation, till 
Everard took his leave and quitted the room. 

" If I could have had leisure from ray own sad feelings, I 
should have been amused at .the different personage Everard 
seemed to be considered since his change of fortune. Instead of 
straying in to dinner, and never being waited for, and being put 
into one of the bachelors' rooms without a fireplace when the 
house was full, he was now expected to hand Lady Masterton to 
the top of the table, never allowed to take up a book or a news- 
paper without some of the family thinking it a duty to come up 
and talk to him. 

" Lady Masterton then returned to where I was sitting, and be- 
gan to talk to me with a kindness that made me angry with ray- 
self for thinking her false, and I wished I could have forgotten her 
whisper to Everard. I think she wanted to find out what my 
feelings towards Everard were, for she ended by advising me to 
think of him seriously, and told me that if she had not reserved 
Mr. Ashworth and me as a pet match of hers, she should never 
have thought of him as a parti for Kate Norman. 

" It was in vain I assured her that Mr. Ashworth and I had 
never met but at her house, and she must know I had with him 
only the shghtest acquaintance. 

" ' It is all very well now, my dear, and you are behaving like a 
very sensible girl to say so — now such a very brilliant partly and 
so much better a one, comes in your way ; only take care, and do 
not be too sudden in your encouragement, or it raight not take 
effect." 

" If she had known how utterly repugnant to me all this was, 
she could not have taken a more effectual means of estranging me 
from Everard." 

" And that," said Neville, " was her object, depend upon it ; 
there is not a raore accomplished manoeuvrer in the kingdom than 
Lady Masterton, and the best of it is, that though she has the 
character of it, nobody suspects her of designs for her own plain, 
silly daughter, whose interests she never loses sight of, while she 



affects to be interested with the affairs of others. But, Elinor, the 
letter ? Did Everard write to you ?" 

" No, he did not. I never heard from or saw him afterwards. 
Oh ! how I waited and wondered, and thought of every reason 
and possibihty of delay. He had said he would write that night 
— that he would leave the letter for me to read ; but no letter ever 
reached me." 

Elinor's tears now flowed fast and unrestrained. The mountains, 
the bright moonlight, and all the beauties around her, were lost in 
the bitter remembrance of the past. 

Neville tried by all the arguments he could think of to console 
her, and to prove to her by his own knowledge of the parties, 
which was much beyond hers, that it was all a plot and a contri- 
vance of Lady Masterton's. 

" And then that letter, Elinor. I am sure it was mentioned by 
Everard in his letter to me on my marriage. I now remember it 
perfectly, and will show it you to-morrow, in his own handwriting ; 
he wrote in the greatest dejection of mind, but avoided all men- 
tion of his unhappiness, except the words, ' Your sister having re- 
turned no answer to the letter I sent, has completely destroyed all 
the returning hope which I was vain and foolish enough to in- 
dulge.' " 

Elinor caught at this with renewed hope. 

" Could it be possible, brother, that we have been betrayed and 
deceived ? But it is too late now ! Besides, he has still ten 
thousand a-year." 

" Unhappy man !" said Neville. " No, if that be all the griev- 
ance, dear Elinor, all may yet be well. I only wish I had known 
it before, but my own happiness put everything out of my head 
but Maria. Before next Midsummer Day, I hope and trust you 
will tell me a different story." 

EVENING THE THIRD. 

It was on the twenty-fourth of June, exactly a year after the 
time of the visit to the Mont du Righi which we have recorded, 



THREE MIDSUMMER EVENINGS. 311 

that Neville Morland, his wife and sister, returned from their tour, 
having passed the winter in Italy. Elinor would fain have returned 
sooner, but they lingered without intending to extend their stay so 
long. Her health, however, was restored ; and her hopes, though 
long deferred, grew brighter as the period of revisiting England 
approached. 

When their well-worn and dusty travelling carriage drove up to 
the house of Lady Lovaine, Maria's mother, in Berkeley Square, it 
was with some anxiety she awaited the opening of the door, for 
having changed their intended route homewards, they had by that 
means missed all their expected letters from England, which, with 
the varied intelligence of the last three months, were quietly re- 
posing at the different pastes restantes to which they had been 
addressed. 

What events might not have happened in that time ! 

However, no outward signs of agitation were visible on the well- 
disciplined countenances of the domestics, as Maria sprung out of 
the carriage and into the hall, eagerly addressing the placid-looking 
butler : 

" Well, Smith ; is Mamma in town ? How is she ?" 

His affirmative was given with the same unmoved serenity as the 
" not at home^'' with which he was celebrated for baffling the in- 
quiries of the most determined-to-be-intimate morning callers, who 
were " sure his mistress would be at home to themr 

Elinor could not help thinking of their Italian servants, who 
wept, knelt, and kissed their hands at their departure ; and she felt 
that she was in England, where the ruling powers were propriety 
and fashion, not la mode, the light divinity of the French, but a 
stern and most intolerant deity, as severe as Fate and as capricious 
as Fortune, but not so generous, for she takes all the riches offered 
at her shrine, and does not always give her smiles in return. 

After a warm and affectionate meeting between Maria and her 
mother, in whose joy Neville and his sister participated, and a host 
of questions had been mutually asked and answered, they had 

26 



312 THREE MIDSUMMER EVENINGS. 

leisure to perceive an unusual note of preparation throughout the 
house. 

The customary steady steps of the servants, were quickened, an 
unwonted number of flower-stands and candelabras were set out, 
and a mysterious whisper was brought up to the lady of the house, 
announcing the arrival of Gunter and his myrmidons. 

Soon after, a request that they would adjourn to another apart- 
ment, as the men were come to take up the carpet and rub the 
floor. 

"Are you going to give a ball to-night. Mamma?" inquired 
Maria. " How very gay in our absence !" 

" Why, my dear, it is all your brother's doing. George would 
have me send out the cards because we were sure you would be 
here last week, and he wanted it to be on the 24th. I am quite 
delighted you are come to-day in time, and I will not say another 
word to you now, for you must be tired. x\fter luncheon you and 
Miss Morland shall go and lie down, the knocking and the ham- 
mering will be over by that time, and you will not be disturbed. 
You may come down as late as you like, but I must have you ap- 
pear, as the ball is given on purpose for your return. It will be so 
pleasant to meet all your old friends at once." 

" Thank you, dear Mamma," said Maria, " but we have had no 
news from England for so long, that I shall make sad mistakes in 
not being au courant des affaires.^' 

" Oh ! never mind, you will be such nice lions, ouly this moment 
arrived, and everybody will think they are the first to see you. I 
have only got an American traveller and a native of Borneo. Does 
not Miss Morland sing ?" 

" Oh ! sweetly. Mamma ; and so improved since she has been in 
Italy — but that must be for another time." 

Maria knew that her dear and only surviving parent was always 
glad of an excuse for a ball, an amiable weakness, in which she 
was very willing to indulge her. She, therefore, was most duti- 
fully grateful on the occasion, and only regretted her Mamma 
should have put herself out of the way for her. 



THREE MIDSUMMER EVENINGS. 313 

Elinor would gladly have escaped being present at the festivities ; 
but finding herself refreshed by repose, and Maria having begged 
her to come down with the assurance that her mother was most 
anxious that they should do so, she promised that she would. 

Before she dressed, a parcel of letters was brought to her, which 
had arrived in anticipation of her coming. As she eagerly glanced 
over them, the writing of Kate Norman met her eye, and she 
hastily broke the seal of the following letter : 

"My DEAREST Elinor, 

" The letter I wrote to you at Florence will have prepared 
you for what I have now to tell you, though you will be surprised 
to find I am already married. The reason of this haste has been 
the declining health of my dear uncle, who was anxious that the 
marriage should take place without delay. On returning to High 
Elms, after our short tour to the Lakes, we found him still very 
unwell, which is the only thing that prevents my coming to town 
to welcome you. 

" Oh, Ehnor ! how glad I shall be to see you, and how much we 
shall have to say to each other. As soon as we get back into our 
own house, you must come and stay with me, it will be so very 
nice to have a house of my own, and you shall see how well I shall 
manage, and how prudent and discreet a matron I shall make. 
Then I shall have to chaperon yow, which will be very strange. 
But if I can guess what is likely to happen, you will not be long 
in want of chaperon. I hope, now I am a wife, and a most happy 
one, that you, my dear Elinor, will be quite at ease on a subject 
that I know gave your kind heart some uneasiness, I mean my 
foolish jlirtation with your brother. You may well believe me 
when I tell you, that the deep attachment I have since known, is 
so different a feeling, I scarcely seem to remember the other, and 
often smile when I think of your nervousness while teUing me he 
was married to Miss Lovaine. 

" You are expected to arrive before the 2-4th. I wonder if you 
will think of the Midsummer Day this tune two years^ when your 



314 THREE MIDSUMMER EVENINGS. 

madcap brother was so sentimental about the pieces of honey- 
suckle ! 

" How little did we all think of what has happened since then, and 
least of all did I imagine I should now have to sign myself, dear 
Elinor, Ever your most affectionate friend, 

"Kate Everard." 

" P. S. — My husband begs I will say all that is proper and kind 
from him. I assure you he is so impatient to see you, that he 
seems inclined to go himself to meet you, even without me. I 
shall really be quite jealous. I hope, dear, you have brought 
plenty of music from Italy, and I am quite sorry I did not give 
you a commission to bring me a bonnet and gown as you came 
through Paris ; but I did not think when I wrote to you abroad, 
that I should so soon want a trousseau!''' 

Elinor had glanced at the signature of this letter, and the over- 
powering surprise prevented her for some time from reading its 
contents. She remained in a kind of stupor of amazement, and 
then her own crushed hopes, her scarcely confessed visions of a 
happy future, and her utter despair came over, and she wept bit- 
terly in " wondering self-compassion." 

Tears had somewhat relieved her full heart, and she was able to 
think more calmly. " I ought not to have hoped that he would con- 
tinue to love me ; and yet, Kate ! — Kate, whom he treated as a child ! 
who — I could have borne anything but this ! Any other persoij I 
would strive to love for his sake — and do I not love Kate ?" And 
here a burst of grief gushed forth, and she took up the fatal letter, 
as if to be sure of its reality. This had the effect of somewhat 
restoring her tranquility ; its tone of almost mockery was revolting 
to her pride. 

" Altered indeed, Kate !" sighed Elinor. " She need not have 
added heartless insult to my misery. And he too, Everard ! — the 
sensitive, the noble-minded Everard ! — to send a message to me of 
this kind through his wife — his wife! He is anxious to show me how 
unconcerned he is, how indifferent ! and he shall never guess what 



I have felt — never ! It is a satisfaction that they did not corae to 
meet me ; that would have been too much ! Oh, that I had re- 
ceived those letters at Florence she speaks of! I should then have 
been prepared. Perhaps poor Kate is not so much to blame. I 
forget what time may do ; — he found her worthier of his love than 
I — I, too, who had rejected him ; and she, how could she help re- 
turning it if she were loved by Everard ?" 

Some one knocked at her door, and Elinor hastily rose. It was 
Neville's young wife, all smiles and diamonds, splendidly dressed 
for the ball. ^ 

" What, not dressed yet ! Why, Elinor, what have you been 
about ? Reading letters, I declare ! Now I will take them all 
away, and insist on your dressing directly. Fanchon will do your 
hair in a moment, and there are very few people come, so that you 
will be in plenty of time, only I must leave you, for Mamma wants 
me to come down," and she fluttered away, without perceiving poor 
EHnor's agitation and anguish of mind. 

There are some people who never perceive any change but bodily 
illness, and Maria was one of these, although she would have done 
her utmost to give pleasure or to avert pain. 

Elinor mechanically allowed herself to be dressed, and with a 
strong resolution to suffer no outward sign of anguish to escape 
her, she went down stairs. 

By this time the rooms were full ; and absorbed as she was in 
other thoughts, Elinor might have wondered at herself for the .per- 
fect indifierence with which she made her first appearance at a 
London party. She was not, however, according to the usual cus- 
tom of heroines, assailed by exclamations on all sides, of wonder 
and admiration. Our poor Elinor glided into the room unan- 
nounced and unknown ; and was glad to take refuge in a seat be- 
hind some flower-stands and several voluminous chaperons, who 
stood up in front, not having settled down to their respective nooks, 
while their daughters and nieces were still on their hands. 

She had continued for some time unobserved, while the hum of 
voices, the glare of lights and diamonds, the scent and exotics and 

26* 



316 



THREE MIDSUMMER EVEmNGS. 



perfumes, gave her a bewildered sensation, and she tried to listen 
mechanically to the niozaic kaleidescope conversation around her. 

" Rather a nice party to-night." — " Intensely suffocating !" — 
" Sontag — mediaeval art." — " Just conceive Wallace marrying that 
httle widow after all !" — " Nothing but Straas, and not a real 
diamond about her, I assure you ; look at them, look at them 
closer." — " No, thank you, I'd rather not." — " How splendidly Mrs. 

N is looking ; handsomer than ever." — " Prettyish girl that 

youngest Smedley has turned out : did not know there was an- 
other out. I remember hen last year with tails. Bore for the 
sister." — " Oh, no ! she has all the money left by a grandmother, 

so she may be as ugly as she likes." — " There's Lady M , and 

I'll try to introduce you ; but don't flatter yourself you'll get in- 
vited to her thes of two hundred. She always offends three-quar- 
ters of the world by inviting one, and that makes such a fureur to 
get to her." — " But how has it lasted so long ?" — '' Just because 

everything real is lasting. Lady M 's popularity is in herself; 

she sincerely loves society, and society loves her. If her acknow- 
ledged talents have gained her an European reputation, she has 
also gained a drawing-room reputation of having the pleasantest 
house in London. She has a buoyant humor, a genial nature, and 
a piquant wit, and these can never tire or grow old." — "You 
are getting quite prosy — quite the legitimate drama." — " The Bor- 
neo pirates ? how horrid 1" — " Yes, I met them at Lord John's, at 
dinner. Charles Dickens dined there too. Alice, dear, do you re- 
member wdiat that clever thing he said was, about the salt ?" — 
"There's the Turkish ambassador. How handsojne he looks — - 
what a dear he is! and just look at his studs!" — "Macready^ — 
Hamlet." — " Oh ! nobody ought to wear green by candlelight." 
— " It's very much praised in the last ' Quarterly.' " — " Didn't I 
see you at Lansdowne House just now ?" — " Are you going to 
Lady Palmerston's ?" — "The Pyramids are nothing when you are 
used to them, only I lost my green veil before I got to the top, 
and tore my dress." — "Will you try the deux- temps?" — "Do you 
play at Camden House ?'' — " What, the piano ?" — " No, I mean in 



THREE MIDSUMMER EVENINGS. 317 

the private theatricals." — " Some ice ? yes, when we can get down 
stairs," &c., <fec. 

Elinor had almost relapsed into abstraction, when she was 
roused by her own name from "Maria, who exclaimed: 

" Elinor, dear, I've been looking for you everywhere. My 
brother wishes to be introduced to you ; we are going now to 
stand up, and I want a vis-a-vis. George, this is Miss Morland — 
my sister Elinor." 

Now George Lovaine was remarkably good-looking, and, more- 
over, considered the best parti in the room ; consequently, as he 
approached the ranks of chaperons and young ladies, he had some 
difficulty in passing on through the various " nods and becks, and 
wreathed smiles" that were lavished upon him from all quarters. 
Great was the surprise and disappointment when a person who had 
never been seen or heard of before, or if seen, taken for the gov- 
erness, was singled out by this " observed of all observers." 
EUnor felt it was impossible she could dance, and had an excuse 
in her recent arrival and consequent fatigue. She would gladly 
have been left to her first solitude ; but when it was observed that 
George Lovaine, instead of dancing, remained by her side, or took 
her round the room to a more convenient place for seeing and 
being seen than she had before chosen, *' the veri/ pretty girl to 
whom George Lovaine was so attentive," was honored by more 
inquiries than she had before elicited. Who she was ? whom she 
came with ? was wondered, and at last the satisfactory discovery, 
variously modified, got round the room : that she was sister to the 
man who married Miss Lovaine ; that she was some country cu- 
rate's daughter — a nobody ; that she said " Ma'am," and dropped 
the h's ; that she spoke broad Welsh, could not dance, would not 
waltz ; had a cork leg ; nevertheless, would be exactly hke Grisi, 
if she had not light hair. 

After refusing numerous introductions to people who make it a 
rule to get introduced to a new girl to see what she is like, even 
George Lovaine began to think Elinor, though nice-ish looking, 
terribly " heavy on hand." He had tried all topics, and when a 



318 THREE MIDSUMMER EVENINGS. 

young lady just returned from a tour, will not talk, thinking it 
quite hopeless, he was particularly civil to an old lady who wanted 
a seat, not only giving up his own seat next to Elinor, but, an- 
swering the lady's very natural question whether he was going to 
dance, by saying : " I was just going to look for your daughter. 
Miss Price, will you stand up with me ?" He had ascertained she 
was engaged already. 

" Why, don't you see Miss Price is standing up, George ?" said 
his sister, coming up to him. " Don't be so idle ; Elinor is quite 
tired of you, I see." 

" And so am I of her," said George, in a low voice, to his sister, 
as he went away. " I can't get on at all with your new sister. Is 
she a blue, or a saint, or only very shy ?" 

" She is only very tired," replied Maria, and for the first time 
she observed poor Elinor's dejected looks, and in a kind manner 
asked her if she had not rather retire ? 

Just as Elinor had willingly assented, she saw Neville coming 
towards them as fast as the crush, which was now at its height, 
would let him. 

" Elinor, I have such a piece of news to tell you it is worth 
having one's letters stopped, or missing them altogether, to hear 
all the news at once. Who do you think is married ? and who do 
you think to ? and who do you think is coming here to-night ?" 

Elinor, by a strong effort, commanded her feehngs, and answered 
in a low voice : " I know all — Kate !" She was heartstruck by the 
tone of indifference all parties seemed to manifest. Her brother 
came to her as if it must be an agreeable piece of intelligence to 
her, and such was also the tone of Kate's flippant note. 

" Yes, but you don't know all," said he, detaining her, as she 
would have left the room. " You do not know to whonij of all 
people in the world, Kate is married !" 

Elinor would not trust herself to answer. 

" Neville, too, who knew all my feelings 1" she thought ; " but 
they shall not see what I suffer. I cannot stay now to talk, Ne- 
ville," she replied ; " I am tired, good night," and she at length 



reached the door. Just on the landing-place, she was unexpectedly 
greeted by some people she knew. They were neighbors in the 
country, and their apparent pleasure in the recognition was such 
that she could not immediately leave them. They had so much to 
say, and she ought to have had so much to ask about the neighbor- 
hood ; at last one of the girls said : 

" Pray, .Elinor, is it true about your friend. Miss Norman ?" 

Elinor felt she was doomed to be tortured, and answered with 
fortitude : " That she is married ? Yes." 

" Oh ! I did not mean that. I mean that her old uncle has 
quite adopted her, and made her his heiress ; and they say he is 
immensely rich. They say it is a great match for Mr. Ethelred or 
Everard, or whatever his name is, after all. Was he not a friend 
of yours ? We used to meet him at the Grove." 

The idea that Everard had married Kate because she was rich, 
was more hateful to Elinor than anything she had heard. Her 
heart shrunk within her, as on every side there seemed to be no- 
thino: but cold and heartless indifference. She steeled herself to 
answer, he was a friend of her brother s ; but as she was yet speak- 
ing, a name was announced that transfixed her to the spot, though 
she longed more than ever to get away. 

" Mr. Everard !" said the footman at the bottom of the stairs, 
and the name travelled up to where they stood. She heard the 
bounding step she could have recognised among a thousand. 

" Mr, Everard I" was repeated close to her. She could not make 
her escape up-stairs to her own room without meeting him at the 
door, and she plunged into the thick of the crowded rooms. 

Elinor had hardly time to think of the strangeness of Everard's 
being there ; she remembered a something in Kate's letter about 
his impatience to see her, and wanting to come to London to meet 
her ; and this instance of bad feeling, and, she could not help con- 
fessing, bad taste, a crime above all others in Everard's eyes once^ 
made Elinor think him strangely altered. She could scarcely be- 
lieve her senses that Everard was actually there till she heard his 
voice. He spoke to some one as he entered the room ; it was only 



a trivial remark, but the well-known tones sunk into her heart. 
She dared not look round, and as if all conspired to prevent her 
escape, she had now got into a part of the room more crowded 
than the rest, 

A waltz was just over, and the dancers were flocking from the 
drawing-room into the one in which she was, so that she was, in 
spite of herself, pushed back again, and, unused to the sort of 
thing, and alone, she was almost frightened at being thus carried 
along against her will. To crown her dismay, Everard was also 
making his way in the same direction, and though he had not seen 
her, he had been for a moment close to her, so that when some 
one she did not know said to him, " Why, Everard, who are you 
looking for so eagerly ? you seem as if you were on a voyage of 
discovery !" she heard him answer, " Indeed I am, but you do not 
know the face I am seeking." Then he sighed — yes, she heard 
him sigh, and she would not turn her head to look at him. Pres- 
ently, in the crowd, she saw her brother, who had caught Everard's 
eye, and was making his way towards him. She saw Neville's 
face radiant with the joy of meeting his friend, and she heard 
Everard's half-suppressed exclamation. At last, by dint of several 
flounces crushed, and pardons begged, the two came within speak- 
ing distance, though not yet near enough to shake hands. 

Neville made various grimaces of lamentation at the intervening 
*■'' parties r 

" Everard, my dear fellow, I am slaying my thousands in order 
to reach you. We are only arrived to-day." Then, as another 
group came between them, he said, laughing : " Here we may stay 
all night, like the two willow trees on the seal, ' le penchant nous 
unit, mais le destin nous separe.'' " 

EHnor heard no more, for an opening suddenly presenting itself, 
she took advantage of it, and stopped not until she found herself 
quite alone in a little conservatory, opening from a boudoir. She 
threw herself on a seat^ and tfied to collect her bewildered 
thoughts. 

The coolness and the perfume of the flowers refreshed her, and 



THREE MIDSUMMER EVEI^mGS. 321 

tlie contrast of their still calm beauty with the crowded, noisy- 
rooms, gave her relief. 

Behind the various exotics, to fill up the space of the trellis, 
there was a plant of trailing honeysuckle. Its peculiar scent was 
not lost on Elinor, and she gathered a bunch of the flowers as she 
leaned against the trelHs. 

The slightest clue will often guide our thoughts back to the 
past ; a strain of music, an odor — who has not felt their power ? 
Elinor was transported to that green lane on the summer evening 
when she first knew that Everard loved her. She recalled every 
look, every word, and whatever had occurred since to change him ; 
she still clung to the conviction that then at least she was dear to 
him. 

She thought of her own hasty conduct and his over-sensitive 
disposition. She blamed herself only, for she ought to have known 
him better. He had married perhaps hastily, and Kate would not 
understand him as she only could have done, and they would be 
wretched, or perhaps, odious as was the thought, Everard was 
really the worldly, heartless being he appeared to be. 

But this was only a passing thought. Faith, the perfect, trust- 
ing, loving faith of woman — the faith that can remove mountains 
of doubt and despair, returned to her bruised heart, and comforted 
her. Everard, she felt, was lost to her, but he could not be wrong. 
There had been mistaking — fatal mistaking ; her own peace was 
wrecked and sinking, but over all hovered the dove of peace, the 
faith unshaken in him. 

While these softening thoughts were nestling in her heart, she 
started at heaiing the voice of Everard close to her. 

He was in earnest conversation with her brother, and dreading 
to meet them if she emerged from her hiding-place, she remained 
in the green-house while they came into the room adjoining it — a 
little boud©ir, now quite deserted. She was now completely a 
prisoner, and could not avoid hearing what passed. She heard 
Everard say in an anxious tone : " And did your sister know of my 
coming to-night, and has she purposely avoided me ?" 



322 THREE MIDSUMI^IER EVENmOS. 

" I think not," said Neville ; " I was just going to tell her when 
she left me to go to her own room, being too tired to stay here any- 
longer." 

" But, tell me, Neville, will she ever see me again — ever forgive 
me ?" 

"You had better ask her yourself; that is my advice," said 
Neville, laughing ; " but I do not think she will be inexorable. 
Our missing all our letters by changing our route has been the 
oddest thing in the world. I have had nothing but surprises to- 
night ; but the greatest of all is, Kate Norman being transformed 
into a great heiress and Mrs. Everard. How did it ever come 
about ?" 

Elinor felt she was not intended to be a listener to this, but she 
would have been more than woman to resist, and besides, she could 
not escape without discovering herself. 

" Why really," answered Everard, " the most naturally in the 
world, but not at all by my interference. I never flattered myself 
with being by any means a favorite with Miss Norman." 

" What strange affectation !" thought Elinor, more and more 
surprised ; but what followed riveted her attention completely ; 
and her astonishment, if it changed its character, was more over- 
powering than ever. 

Everard continued : " Disappointed, and cut to the heart by the 
indifference of your sister, the letter I left in Lady Masterton's 
keeping not being even noticed by her, I became a perfect misan- 
thrope and savage. The only person whose society I at all wished 
for was Kate Norman. I knew that I could at least hear of your 
sister sometimes through her, and the mystery that still hung 
about her engagement to Ash worth, might be cleared up ; but I 
had barely a claim on Miss Norman's friendship, and it was the 
luckiest chance in the world that effected it. She then won my 
heart completely by her attachment to Elinor. It was through her 
only that I gathered the least ray of hope, that I learned she was 
never engaged to Ashworth, that my thinking so was a source of 
regret to her, and that even in her letters from abroad, she men- 



THREE MIDSUMMER EVENmGS. 323 

tioned me with interest; yes, Kate Norman, simple as she was, 
saved me from despair." 

" But her marriage ?" said Neville. 

" You shall hear. My brother Charles, whom you can scarcely 
remember, came from India, and had letters of most especial intro- 
duction, from an intimate friend at Madras, to Kate's uncle. This 
was the first acquaintance ; and the old gentleman, you know how 
farouche he is in general, took a particular fancy to Charles, and 
he a no less particular one to his niece ; so that in less than three 
weeks it was all settled. The only share I had in it, was to do my 
best to remove the usual failing of younger brothers — poverty, 
which greatly facihtated the uncle's consent ; and now, not to be 
outdone, he has determined to adopt my brother's wife, and leave 
her all his fortune." 

The revulsion of feeling Elinor experienced as she heard this 
statement almost took away her breath; she felt as if awaking 
from some hideous dream. She did not faint, nor burst into tears; 
but it was more difficult to command her overpowering joy, than 
it had been before to hide her grief. 

She heard her own name again from Everard, who told how his 
hopes had been once more revived by the communications of her 
friend Kate. That he had learned from her that Elinor had never 
received a letter from him, and was no less wounded by his appar- 
ent neglect than he had been by hers : "And if you knew, Ne\ille, 
how anxiously I have waited for your arrival, you would feel how- 
disappointed, cruelly disappointed I am at your sister's absence." 

Elinor could remain no longer, and with a firm determination to 
behave as if nothing had happened^ she came out of the conserva- 
tory ; and as she held out her hand to Everard, and he started up 
to meet her, though not a word was spoken, their looks met, and 
each was satisfied that all was explained and forgiven, and that 
nothing was forgotten. 

" Why, Elinor,"' exclaimed Neville, " we have been looking for 

you everywhere ! Where have you been ?" 

Elinor did not think it necessary to explain ; but the constraint 

27 



with which she would perhaps have met Everard, the fear of put- 
ting herself forward, even the recollection of his "odious ten 
thousand a-year," had quite vanished before the joy of the mo- 
ment. She felt as if she had injured him, and when Neville re- 
turned to the boudoir, where he had left them to their mutual ex- 
planations, Elinor had confessed the whole story of the equivoque 
of Kate's letter, and her supposition that he was the husband of 
her friend, and even went so far as to allow that she was very glad 
she had been mistaken. 

" I wonder what will happen before next Midsummer Day !" 
said Neville, laughing as he picked up the piece of honeysuckle 
Elinor had been industriously pulling to pieces in the course of her 
explanations with Everard. 



PYGMALION. 325 



PYGMALION. 

BY. W. M. GILLESPIE. 

" Sculpsit ebur, formam que dedtt, qua foemina nasci 
NuUa potest ; operis que sui conoepit a morem." 

Ovid.— I. 8. 

Flushed with the crimson of the setting sun, 

Softened to love's own proper roseate hue, 

Streamed the warm hght of Cytherea's isle. 

Into the Sculptor's holiest shrine of art : 

Strains of sweet music floated thro' the air, 

Whose strangely soothing tones so gently swelled, 

And then so faintly died away, that scarce 

The hearer knew if, in hi& raptured ear, 

Or in his fancy only, dwelt the sound : 

And thrilhng odors, sweeter far than those 

Of Araby the Happy, lulled the soul 

In trances of delight. High in the midst 

A form of marble lay upon a couch, 

Whose snowy coverings seemed to swell and sink 

As if they wished with reverent caress 

Still nearer to embrace those radiant charms. 

Upon that statue its creator gazed — • 
Pygmalion, the Sculptor. He had formed 
The image- like the beauteous shapes of air. 
The visionary beings of his soul, 
Who often, in ecstatic dreams would flit 
Before the sleeper's sight, then wholly freed 
From earthly thought or taint. What joys were his, 
When bright Olympus visited his sleep, 



326 



PYGMAUOK 



And beauty, such as dull earth never bore, 
With pleasure agonized his raptured soul. 
Oft did he see the Queen of Love herself, 
Benignant smile upon him; eagerly 
With straining eyes he gazed upon her form. 
And when she faded from his dizzied sight. 
And mingled with thin air, Pygmalion felt 
She had not vanished all, for treasured up 
Within his heart of hearts were all her charms. 
Awakened from these brief but blissful dreams. 
To this dark world the Sculptor had returned. 
And sought in vain amid the earthly fair 
For one whom he could love. His wearied heart, 
Like dove descending from its heaven-ward flight, 
Found none in life on whom it could repose. 
Faint with its longings ; for, before his eyes, 
The image of the goddess ever passed, 
Laughing to scorn all earthly rivalry. 

This heavenly form, his skilful hands at length, 
By all creative love directed well, 
Embodied in the marble, white as snow. 
But, ah ! as cold. On this he eager gazed 
From blushing morn to glowing noon ; from noon 
To starry night ; from night till morn again — 
Naught else he saw ; it was his universe. 
With throbbing heart, and parted lips he knelt 
Adoring his divinity, which lay 
Pulseless and passionless, unmoved by all 
His deep devotion, which at length found words. 
And gushed forth from the fountain of his heart, 
In supplication to the Queen of Love : 



' Venus, Queen of Beauty, hear me : 
Bend thee to my dying prayer ; 

Oft in dreams hast thou been near me, 
Moating thro' the raptured air I 



PYGMALIOK 327 



" Let me not in vain thus languish, 
For my own creation pine : 
Free me from this direst anguish, 
Bj thy gracious power divine. 

" I adjure thee, by love's sorrows ; 
By its speechless, hopeless pangs ; 
By pale cheeks which love's tear furrows, 
Sharper than a serpent's fangs ; 

" By the lover's adoration, 

Scorned by his haughty fair ; 
By the absent lover's passion ; 
Broken vows, and black despair. 

" I adjure thee by love's pleasures. 

Far beyond words' narrow scope ; 
By its rich, exhaustless treasures ; 
By its fearful, eager hope ; 

" By the fond, tho' faint confession ; 
By the tell-tale blush and tear ; 
By the meeting eyes' expression ; 
By the kiss so heavenly dear. 

" I adjure thee, mighty Venus, 

Change to flesh tliis heart of stone : 
Let true love spring up between us ; 

Force me not to love alone. 

• 

" Grant me this, and I will never 
Cease thy beauty to adore. 
But will worship thee forever, 
Loving daily more and more." 

His prayer was ended ; but he long remained 

With outstretched arms, and upward-glancing eyes, 

Intent on vacancy. At length he turned 

Again to gaze upon the beauteous form 

Which lay upon the couch. It still was there, 

The same, yet oh, how changed ! A rosy tinge 

Flushed slowly o'er the marble — such a hue 

As Alpine snows receive from dying day — 

And as the vivid principle of life 
27* 






328 



PYGMALION. 



Rushed through the veins, the marble paleness fled, 
Yielding dominion to its glowing foe, 
E'en as the dusky Night in terror flees 
Fast from the chasing god of glorious Day. 

The wondrous change went on, becoming still 
Each moment lovelier, like the mingling tints 
Of the expiring dolphin. On the cheek 
A crimson blush now mantled, such a bloom 
As solar kisses give the downy peach : 
And roses there appeared to bud and blow, 
With sudden ripeness in this magic spring. 
The bosom rose and fell, as snowy swans 
Upon the heaving wave. Through every limb 
A quivering ran, a sympathetic thrill. 
The body's welcome to its entering lord, 
The vivifying soul. Around the lips 
Soft plays (fair harbinger of peace and hope) 
A heavenly smile, that rainbow of the heart. 
The eye-hds, jealous of their precious charge, 
Slowly unclose ; the speaking orbs flash forth, 
Greeting with soulful glance Pygmalion — 
Venus be praised ! the statue lives — and loves. 



Union College, Nov., 1850. 



The above lines, written many years since, but never before published, 
have been considered an appropriate contribution to this Memorial, as having 
much interested Mrs. Osgood by their curious coincidences in thought and ex- 
pression, with passages in another (and much better) poem on the same sub- 
ject, pubUshed two or three years ago by " Grace Greenwood." — W. M. G. 



RAMBLES IN GREENWOOD. 329 



RAMBLES IN GREENWOOD. 

BY FREDERIC SAUNDERS. 

To the lovers of rural beauty, the sequestered shades of Green- 
wood Cemetery have an indescribable fascination. The sad solemnity 
of its associations predisposes the mind for an appreciation of its 
exceeding loveliness. We pass from the City of the Living into the 
City of the Dead, as we would into another and a fairer world. 
Around us are still spires and towers and palaces, and humble 
homes, as in the thronged abodes of life, but oh how silent ! and 
our lips are still, here, as if we felt the presence of their spirits who 
are sleeping about us ; their spirits, which in the beauty of the scene 
find fit changes for the margin of the River of Life immortal. 

Close by Boston is her Place of Silence — that place in which rests 
the singer over whose unstrung lyre we raise a cairn with these 
memorial oflferings. It is a place of beauty ; of such beauty as to 
charm away the terrors with which those who live about it look on 
Death ; but Mount Auburn is less beautiful than Greenwood. And 
near Philadelphia, where the Schuylkill pours her classic waters, 
the Laurel Hill attracts the pensive dreamer from the busy town, 
and by its various enchantments detains him till the sun is down ; 
but Greenwood is more wild and fair than Laurel Hill ; and lookino; 
from its eminences upon the sea, we seem nearer the eternal rest. 
And Baltimore, and Cincinnati, and how many other cities, have 
their cemeteries, as if all the living had been wooing the Angel of 
Terror, and garlanding her as for a bridal day. But here are her 
chosen groves, her fiivorite palaces ; here she has pleasantest 
meetings with the Angel of Peace. Whatever there is of selfishness, 
whatever there is of bitterness, in our nature, here is forgotten. 
The pomps and vanities of the world come not, even through our 



C30 



KAMBLES m GREENWOOD. 



memories, into this holy place. If, pausing over some cherished 
dust, we recall the truth and beauty that once were associated with 
it, it is only that we may look thence into the future, where all 
sweet impulses shall be in perfect and perpetual bloom ; that we 
may contrast the life, amid darkness and toil, that is passed, with 
the life that is to come, dimly seen, far away by the " delectable 
mountains." 

The fragrant flowers shall smile 

Over the low, green gi-aves ; the trees shall shake 

Their soul-hke cadences upon the tombs ; 

The little lake, set in a paradise 

Of wood, shall be a mirror to the moon 

What time slie looks from her imperial tent 

In long delight at all below; the sea 

Shall lift some stately dirge he loves to breathe 

Over dead nations, while calm sculptures stand 

On every hill, and look like spirits there 

That drink the harmony. 

Standing at the eastern verge of this Necropolis, on Ocean Hill, 
where the pious Abeel sleeps under a column, in white simplicity 
reflecting his experience, we look off through Sycamore Grove, and 
Grassy Dell, and beyond Highland Avenue, to the elevation, where 
Death won so many, long ago, in the Battle of Brooklyn, and 
where now sleep, with their brothers of the Revolutionary strife, 
the heroes who fell in Mexico — all their conflicts ended now, and 
they in the rest which would be eternal, but for that last trumpet 
which shall startle all the armies to the grand and ultimate review, 
A more pleasing emotion is awakened as we pause, in that vicinity, 
by the obelisk which marks the grave of our learned friend Dr. 
Forry; or, not far from that, by the temple in which art has 
gathered her ministers to tell the mournful history of the sudden 
death of Miss Cauda, with whom her friends' best joy and hope 
went from the world ; or, near Sylvan Bluff", by the monument 
which the artist Catlin has reared over the gentle wife who for 
seven years accompanied him on his wild and hazardous journeys 
in the wilderness, and finally died, five years ago, in Paris. There 
are all conditions, all varieties, in Death, as in Life, and the wanderer 



in Greenwood turns from the graves we Lave mentioned to that 
of the beautiful Indian, Do-hiun-me^ who came to see the white 
man's palaces, with a delegation of his tribe, living bejond the 
prairies, and died here, a few years ago. It is down by the margin 
of Sylvan Lake, and close by it is the modest column erected to 
" poor MacDonald Clarke," in whose numbers, if there was " more 
of madness and more of melancholy," there was also more of genius 
than glows in the works of some of greater fame. 

If the eyes that follow the words we are tracing upon this leaf 
were subject to our guidance, in that City of Rest, w^e would point 
to the humble memorials of affection, not less beautiful and sacred, 
all around us there ; memorials that renew and strengthen our 
respect for human nature ; and haply, in the declining of the day, 
while the funeral bell tolls mournfully on the still air, and the hills 
reverberate its sad sounds, we would follow at fit distance some 
new cortege that adds to the populousness of the thronged city. 
We cannot do so now ; but in fancy we linger by such a scene, and 
involuntarily repeat the good counsel of our great poet, to 

So live, that when thy summons comes to jbiu 
, The innumerable caravan that moves 

To that mysterious reahn, where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
Thou go not, like the quarry slave at night, 
Scourged to liis dungeon ; but sustained and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave — 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and hes down to pleasant dreams. • 

The same bard has sung that 

The groves were God's fii'st temples, 

And as we slowly came from those of Greenwood, w^e could not 
help but feel that in none were his will, and our own low estate 
and sublime destiny, taught more impressively. 



LIFE— ITS SEASONS. 

BY CATHERINE MATHEWS RHODES. 

" O, THE air is rife with fragrance, the earth is gay with flowers, 
And music floats upon the wind from all her leafy bowers ; 
And the rivulet is dancing in the sunbeam's glittering light, 
And the clear-toned lark springs upward as if joy were in its flight. 
My heart is full of gladness, for God himself hath given 
The life and love that round me breathe hke fallincr liofht from 
heaven." 

Thus sang a youthful maiden, in her early spring-like hour : 
Her's was the glorious gift of mind, and peerless beauty's dower, 
And Fortune smiled upon her way, as though a kindly spell 
Had call«l each lovely thing on earth about her path to dwell ; 
And youthful love, in wifching tone, was whispered in her ear, 
In accents which, though earthward borne, were almost heaven to 
hear. / 



0, the beauty of the summer, with its soft and balmy dawn ! 
As gently, sweetly, steals the breeze upon the dewy lawn. 
And the glory of the noon-day, with its clouds of golden hght, 
And the gorgeous hues of sunset, as they deepen into night. 
The Summer night with clear, bright stars, and its depth of liquid 

blue, 
"Where dreaming fancy seems to see the angels glancing through. 

Clear was the radiance of the light within that beaming eye. 
Lofty the beauty of that brow, uplifted to the sky. 



LIFE— ITS SEASONS. 333 



And sweet the music of that voice, which sang of earth and heaven, 
As though a seraph's thriUing notes were to a mortal given. 
And with a pure and heavenly hope, beat high that noble heart, 
lliat in the angels' work of love, she here might bear a part. 

0, the summer flowers are feded, the leaves lie dead and sere, 
And the chilly Avinds of autumn sing their requiem wild and drear, 
While to that lone, sad music, the trees keep quivering tune, 
And the wild waves dash upon the shore, beneath the clear, cold 

moon. 
And though some bright but fading tints still linger in the dell, 
It is a mournful loveliness that wails the year's sad knell. 

Still chants a thrilling melody, as in the days gone by. 
But no longer of the beauty of earth and air and sky ; 
And though its tones are sweeter far than e'er they were of yore, 
They now reveal the secret wo that noble bosom bore — 
The pain of withered love and hope, the strife with guilt and wrong — 
Though still her thoughts are heavenward bent, her heart and pur- 
pose strong. 

Wild beat the wintry snow and wind against the casement pane, 
Loud and still louder howled the wind, cold fell the freezing rain, 
While in the curtained chamber dim a parting spirit lay. 
Where the feeble lingering pulses its flight do but delay ; 
And the quiet listening watcher doth bend above her brow, 
Lest Death's dull, icy fingers may have touched her even now. 

But see ! her eye grows brighter, as though life would yet return, 
For the quick and ardent spirit doth again within her burn. 
And a strain of heavenly music from her lips doth clearly flow. 
As though the notes that angels sing were heard by her below ; 
She sings the spirit's sprirg time in the glorious world above — 
Of its blissful life and beauty, of its pure and perfect love. 



334 LIFE— ITS SEASON^S. 



Again the lovely Spring all the earth bedecks with flowers ; 
Again the wind bears fragrance from all her scented bowers, 
And the rose tree sheds its blossoms on a quiet lonely grave, 
AVhere the clear and sparkling rivulet flows by with murmuring 

wave. 
While the spirit soareth upward, where bloom celestial flowers 
Of fadeless, deathless beauty, within the heavenly bowers. 



MOINA. 

A ROMAN-CE OF IRISH HISTORY. 

BY MARY E. HEWITT. 

In tbat part of Dalaradia which is now comprised within the 
county of Antrim, is a romantic recess, cleft out from between two 
lofty and overhanging hills, whose jagged sides, overgrown with 
lichens and running vines, wall it in on either hand, while at the 
end opposite to the entrance, a waterfall pours downward from the 
mountain stream above, and falls, a perpendicular column as white 
as marble, from the height of twenty feet into the cool, green basin 
below, from where it wanders away through the glen. So beauti- 
ful is the place that it would seem to be a temple and a shrine, 
formed by nature for the worship of Anu, the Water Spirit, one of 
the objects of adoration with the Druids, and the followers of their 
pagan creed. 

Thither, on an afternoon in midsummer, came a maiden, beauti- 
ful, and of noble presence, who might have seen some eighteen 
summers, to bathe in the fountain. The colors mingled in her 
mantle showed her to be of the patrician order. Her kirtle, which 
was fastened around her waist by a golden cincture, was of white 
linen, embroidered with bright colored threads of varied hues, 
intermingled with gold ; the loose, hanging sleeve, open to the 
shoulder, was there confined by a golden brooch, and the robe be- 
neath, that flowed to her feet, was of white hnen also, and bordered 
with rich embroidery to match the kirtle. 

She had laid aside her parti-colored mantle, unloosed the crim- 
son sandals from lier small, white feet, and shaking down her luxu- 
riant auburn hair, from the golden bodkin that confined it, when, 

28 



336 MOINA. 



with a start of surprise and apprehension, she sav/ a youth, in the 
plain garh of the peasantry, lying beside the fountain, senseless, and 
bleeding from a wound near the temple. To seize the korn, the 
cup sacred to the deity of the fountain, to dash some water upon 
the face of the wounded youth, and to place the cup to his pallid 
lips, was the work of the moment. She parted the dark locks, mat- 
ted with blood, from his broad white forehead, and strove to stanch 
the wound with the border of her kirtle — then, hastily tearing 
away a portion of her hanging sleeve, she bound it tightly about 
his head, and as his eyes slowly unclosed, her own fell beneath the 
intenseness of his gaze. 

" Thanks, noble maiden," he said, attempting to rise ; but over- 
come with faintness from loss of blood, he sank upon a broad flat 
stone, near the fountain, and continued, "I keep the sheep of 
Milcho, whose bondman I am, upon the hill — and seeking for a 
lamb that had strayed from the flock, I came hither, and in descend- 
ing from above I missed my foothold and fell here, below — where, 
but for thy gentle care, I might, perhaps, have perished ere the 
morning, unaided." 

" Do I guess aright ?" he questioned, after a pause — " Thou hast 
come hither to pay thy devotions to Anu, the Spirit of the foun- 
tain ?"* 

"Nay !" rephed the maiden. "My father adored Beil the Sun, 
and the Fire." " And thou ?" interrogated the youth. The girl 
hesitated, and then said, "If I show thee my heart wilt thou not 
betray me ?" " The God I worship forbid !'' uttered the youth, 
with so much fervor that the maiden without farther fear pro- 
ceeded — " They call me Moina. The fortress of my fathers stands 
yonder on the hillside, and the bards sing their praises in the hall. 
My parents died while I was yet a child, and the inheritance of my 
sire has, according to our law, passed into the hands of his nearest 
kinsman, whose pensioner I am. My kinsman would have made 
me a priestess o? Beil ; but I yearn for a holier God, and a loftier 

• Many of the Druids denied the divinity of the fire, and worshipped the Spirit of the 
Earth and the Water. « 



worship than that of Samothrace, brought hither of old by the 
Phoenicians. The great Dhia I would serve should delight neither 
in the victim passed through fire, nor in the inhuman sacrifice of 
the first born to our great idol Crom-Cruach of the golden head. 
And thou ?" she questioned, " thou art not of our nation, for thou 
hast the accent of a foreign people." 

" I am named Patrick," he replied. " When six years since, 
your monarch, Nial of the Nine Hostages, after ravaging the coasts 
of Britain, descended upon the shores of Amoric Gaul, his soldiers 
slew my mother, Conchessa, who was a Roman, and, among others, 
took captive my father, who was a Decurio or municipal senator, 
and myself, and sold us here into bondage. My father, who is old, 
is one of Milcho's herdsmen. On the eve of the last great festival 
of La Beil-tinne we extinguished the fire upon our cottage hearth, 
in obedience to the law, and the next morning repaired to the 
Sacred Grove to obtain a consecrated brand from the officiating 
Druid, to illumine again our hut — but an evil tongue had ac- 
cused us of heresy. This symbol of a strange creed had been 
discovered in our home, and the fire was denied us." And as 
he spoke he drew from beneath his vest a rude crucifix, and 
held it up before the eyes of Moina. " Behold !" he said, " this 
sacred symbol of our worship — this blessed sign of man's re- 
demption ! I will tell you, maiden, of the true God, to whom 
your unenlightened soul is struggling upward through the dark- 
ness." And while he spoke his dark, spiritual eyes dilated, and his 
cheek flushed, while his frame seemed to thrill with emotion. " We 
are proscribed, my father and myself," he continued, "yet if, in 
seeking after the truth, you dare to risk the anathema of your 
priesthood, by entering the dwelling of those who are outlawed, 
come to our hut when the twilight falls, and the sheep and kine 
are folded, and we will show you our faith." 

And Moina went. And every evening when she could steal out 
unperceived, she took her way to the hut of the Decurio. And 
Patrick, while she listened almost breathlessly to his teaching, 
seemed to gather fresh inspiration from the absorbed gaze of the 



338 MOINA. 



maiden, and every evening the low voice of prayer went up from 
their humble altar. And Moina was a Christian. 

And with their mutual worship of the same great Being, a mu- 
tual love, yet unconfessed, grew up between these two, — so pure — 
so mingled with all the holiest aspirations of their natures, that it 
seemed but a part of their adoration of the great source from 
which it sprang. 

And now the mid-winter had arrived. Twilight was falling, fast 
over the barren hills, the leafless forest, and the snow-covered earth 
— it was falling fast within the low walls of the bondsman's hut, 
upon the rude table, the wooden stool, and upon the cold, dun 
ashes that yet lay unswept on the hearthstone. 

On a rude couch, stretched upon a bed of skins, lay the old De- 
curio — the dews of death fast gathering on his forehead — and close 
beside him, pressing the clasped hands of the old man, that folded 
a crucifix to his breast, knelt Patrick, so absorbed in prayer that he 
heeded not the noble form of Moina, who entered and knelt beside 
him until the prayer ceased — then arising, she took from beneath 
her mantle a covered vessel containing broth, and a cake of oat- 
meal, and said " give of this nourishing broth to thy father, and 
eat thou, too, Patrick, for ye are both perishing of cold and for 
want of proper sustenance ;" — but the youth replied, " my father 
needs earthly food and fire no longer! Weep not, Moina," he 
added, " for in each of these martys to our faith a saint is given to 
Paradise." / 

The old Decurio was dead, and a stone marked his burial place ; 
and Moina, withheld by an instinctive sense of propriety, went no 
more to the lonely hut of Patrick — but together they wandered 
over the hills, at evening, and marked the course of the planets in 
the heavens ; or, seated side by side upon a stone, they talked of 
the great Creator, and of the joys of the Hereafter, and together 
their prayers, their thanksgiving, went up to Him who had so 
surrounded their lives with a halo, as it were, of eternal gladness 
— for as yet no thought of the future had overshadowed them. 

One evening the moon came forth in all her brightness, and 



MOINA. 339 



Moina, looking upward, said playfully, " I could almost fall back 
upon the diirk days of my ancestors and worship Re to-night, for 
the mellow hght she sheds upon our pathway — so like the calm 
and holy light of that religion which thou hast shed upon my 
spirit." 

"Thou wilt miss me, Moina, when I am gone," the youth an- 
swered sadly. The maiden started to her feet, then sank again 
upon the broad stone where they were sitting and exclaimed, 
" Gone !— Whither ?" 

" Thou knowest," he replied, " that the sixth year of my servi- 
tude has already expired, and when the seventh year is also over, 
what is left for me but to return again into mine own country ?''* 

But Moina sat, cold and rigid as marble, beside him while he 
continued, "Thou, a chieftain's daughter, hast been kind to me, a 
poor shepherd and a bondman, and memory will ever cherish the 
fire of gratitude, sacred and inextinguishable, upon my heart's 
altar, — and when, hereafter, some chief of thine own rank takes 
thee home to his halls, to be the crowning joy of his existence, 
wilt thou not think, sometimes, of the lonely pilgrim who crossed 
thy pathway and pointed thee a brighter road to eternity ?" 

" Never ! never !" exclaimed the girl passionately, throwing her- 
self upon his breast, and clasping her beautiful arms around him — 
"I will never wed ! My Hfe is dedicated to thee, and to the worship 
thou hast taught me. Thou may'st go hence, but never will another 
than thou come near my heart ! Henceforth, like the priestess of 
the Druidical temple, I will consecrate myself alone to the Deity I 
serve !" and panting, and sobbing, she buried her face upon his 
shoulder, — and Patrick, thriUing with ecstacy unknown before, 
folded her yet closer to his bosom, and for the first time their hps 
met in one long, ardent kiss of holy, passionate love. 

And now a new life had sprung up between them, and thence- 
forth, mingled with their worship of the Almighty was the one 



* "It is said that there was a law in Ireland, according to which slaves should become 
free in the seventh year. The same writers add, that this was conformable to the practice 
of the iTebrews." — Moore's History of Ireland. 

28* 



840 



MOINA. 



ever-present thought of themselves — and with it was neither doubt 
nor fear, nor care for the future, but only the one all-pervading 
feeling of content. 

But the vernal equinox approached, and the earth and the trees 
had again put forth their grass and their foliage, when, one morn- 
ing, a procession, with the Arch-Druid at its head, arrayed in his 
sacerdotal robe of many colors, with a white surplice worn over it 
— his brow bound with a chaplet of oak leaves, the golden egg sus- 
pended upon his breast, and a golden pruning hook in his hand, 
came forth to crop the mistleto where it had been discovered, grow- 
ing from an aged oak. 

Beneath the tree an altar of stone had been erected, and wreathed 
with oak leaves ; and tied to the tree by their horns were two white 
bulls, intended for the sacrifice. 

The Druid ascended the oak, and cutting the mistleto from the 
trunk, received it in his robe, and the multitude raised a loud shout 
of exultation for a gift which, possessing divine virtues as they sup- 
posed, was thought to betoken the immediate presence of the 
Deity — when one of the bulls, infuriated by the unusual noise, and 
the presence of the crowd, broke loose from the garlands of oak 
leaves that bound him to the tree, and darted, roaring, and tossing 
his wreathed horns, into the midst of the alarmed and flying 
assembly. 

Onward he rushed, towards the spot where at a distance Patrick 
was tending his sheep, pursuing a flying female. His hot breath 
was upon her, and with head depressed he was prepared to strike, 
when Patrick, seizing a lamb of the flock, confronted the bull, and 
dashed it full upon the horns of the enraged animal. It was the 
work of an instant, and the creature, arrested in his career by this 
unlocked for encumbrance, was hastily secured by some officials 
who approached, while Patrick flew to succor the female, who had 
swooned and fallen upon the earth. 

He lifted her gently from the grass, but who can describe his 
agony and dismay to find that she, whom he had saved from a 
horrible death, was Moina, his beloved ! She was still insensible — ■ 



UOINA. 341 



pale as the sculptured marble, while the life-tide, like a crimson 
thread, flowed slowly from her palUd lips, down over her robe, and 
staining to a deeper hue the colors of her mantle. 

With the aid of her male attendant, who had been one of the 
first to fly from the fury of the bull, and who now came in search 
of his mistress, Patrick conveyed her to her home. An illness of 
two weeks, consequent upon the fright to which she had been ex- 
posed, and the rupture of a blood-vessel, followed ; and ever the 
evening hour found Patrick at the gate of the castle, asking, with 
a calm voice and throbbing heart, for the health of the lady. 

And when at length he heard that she was able to leave her 
chamber, with what impatience did he wait for her coming forth. 
At last, one evening, he saw her, with uncertain step, approaching 
their trysting place. And who cannot imagine the rapture of that 
meeting to Patrick, after the doubt, the apprehension, that had 
preceded it ! — while Moina, folded to his bosom, clung to him Hke 
a weary bird to its nest, as though she would never again go 
thence. 



The first of May, the day of the great annual festival of La 
Beil-tinne had arrived. On the eve preceding the festival, all the 
fires throughout the land had been extinguished, in comphance 
with the law, that they might be again relighted, on the following 
day, by a brand from the pile burning in the consecrated grove, 
lighted by the Druids. 

In the great temple, which was used as a place of national coun- 
cil, as well as a temple of worship, and consisted of a circle of tall, 
straight pillars, with a large flat stone in the centre, serving for an 
altar — with the sky for its roof and the greensward for its pave- 
ment — stood the Arch-Druid and the officiating priests. 

The sacred rites which always preceded the opening of the great 
national council — the ofiering upon the altar of a white bull, with- 
out blemish, which had been previously driven between the two 
fires of purification that burned in the grove beyond, had been per- 
formed, and the Arch-Druid, arrayed in his priestly vestments and 



holding in his hand the white wand of office, proceeded to hear 
and judge the causes brought before him. Against many there 
assembled the sentence of excommunication — more dreaded than 
death — was pronounced, and the fire denied them for the ensuing 
year ; and all persons were forbidden to furnish the criminal with 
either food or fire, or to show him the least office of humanity, 
under the penalty of incurring the like sentence. 

There was a pause, followed by a murmur of surprise from the 
multitude, when a young female was led forward, arrayed in the 
colors appropriated to the nobles ; — of an elevated mien, and a face 
whereon was blended, with great beauty, an expression of childlike 
innocence and womanly dignity combined. She paused before the 
officiating ministers of judgment, and the Arch-Druid, bending his 
brows and extending his wand towards her, said, in a voice whose 
severe tones might have appalled a stouter heart — " Thou, Moina, 
the child of Declan, art accused of frequenting the hut of the two 
outlawed bondsmen of the chieftain Milcho, and of conveying food 
to their dwelling. Thou art also accused of heresy, and the wor- 
ship of strange Gods — and for this double crime thou art excom- 
municated, and condemned to suffer between the two fires of puri- 
fication, on the eve of the coming festival of Samhuin." 

A murmur of pity arose from the crowd as, with a paler brow, 
yet expressive of lofty faith and endurance, Moina was led again 
from the temple, and the Arch-Druid declared the- council dissolved. 



Sunset was fast fading into twilight over the beautiful waters of 
Lough Neagh, on whose romantic shores stood one of those re- 
markable structures — the knowledge of the purpose for which they 
were erected now lost in the oblivion of ages — the Bound Tower ; 
and below, near its base, floated a light carrach — the boat of that 
period, constructed of a frame-work of wood and osiers, covered 
with the skins of cattle. Within the boat sat a youth, gazing 
earnestly upward at the walls of the tower, and listening as if to 
catch the slightest sound. "Moina!" he repeated — "Moina!" 
There was a cry of dehght, and a voice from the loop-hole above 



MOINA. 343 



replied, " Patrick ! Dearest Patrick ! Art tliou come at last ?" 
" Yes, at last I have discovered where they have concealed thee," 
he answered. " Can I not reach thee ? Is there no way of escape?" 
"Alas! I know not!" she said. '"They brought me hither half- 
conscious and blindfolded. This chamber is paved with broad 
stones, and if there be a door, it is so artfully concealed in the cir- 
cular walls as to be invisible. There is no aperture save the few 
loop-holes thou seest, for the admission of light and air, scarcely a 
hand's breadth in width. I have seen no one since I came hither, 
and food is supplied me while I sleep, by some unknown hand." 

Night came over the earth, and the heavens were thick studded 
with stars, and still Patrick lingered beneath the tower in sad con- 
verse with his beloved, and forming futile plans for her escape, 
until warned that she needed repose and fearful of discovery, with 
a promise to return on the evening of the morrow, he reluctantly 
departed. 

And he came — and again, and again the stars were the mute 
witnesses of their communing ; and even there, with the impassa- 
ble barrier of the tower walls between them, their hearts still met 
amid the sohtude as of old. 

Moina had never fully recovered from the shock which the flight 
of the bull occasioned her, and now, in her prison, she was assailed 
by illness, and a cough which plainly told that consumption was 
about to rob an unjust power of its victim. One evening Patrick, 
as usual, waited beneath the tower, but Moina did not reply to his 
repeated calls. Alarmed for her safety — almost maddened by the 
fear that she had died alone and unaided in her prison — he rowed 
rapidly to the shore, determined to renew his oft-attempted search 
for an entrance to the tower ; and, as if to aid him, the moon came 
out in all her radiance, lighting up earth and sky with her silvery 
brightness. 

The banks of the Lake were covered by a thick growth of bushes 
and tall trees, reaching to the water's edge ; and forcing his way 
among these, after a toilsome search he discovered a ^ow, broken, 
arched way, overgrown with vines, and the entrance obstructed by 



344 MOINA. 



stones and rubbisli. Removing a portion of this, he forced his 
way through the aperture, and found his path widen as he pro- 
ceeded, until at length he could stand upright in the passage. 
Groping onward through the darkness, his way was at last im- 
peded by what he joyfully discovered to be a flight of stairs, rudely 
constructed of stone, but at the top all farther progTess was cut oft' 
by a stone placed above. With the strength of a Titan he applied 
his shoulder to the task of lifting the stone from its resting place, 
which, after repeated efforts, yielded to his endeavors, and he 
emerged into a large, circular chamber, having a simple altar on 
one hand with a brazier, wherein the fire was extinguished, upon 
it, and on the other a couch which sustained the form of the suffer- 
ing Moina. 

And thus again they met. And Moina, in the joy of that hour, 
forgot her imprisonment, her dreadful sentence — forgot all but that 
Patrick was again beside her. But the poor sufferer was too ill 
to rise, and the hope of removing her from the power of her judges 
by the newly-discovered entrance, and of final escape from the 
coast, was, for the night, abandoned ; and the eyes of love saw 
that the maiden was fast fading away from earth. 

Yet why j^rolong the tale ? She died ! Full of hope and faith 
in the hereafter, she closed her eyes upon the bosom of Patrick, 
and her last look of love was fixed upon him who had led her on 
her way to Heaven. 

And oh ! the agony of that hour to hira whose life was thus 
riven from its last earthly hold ! Long he watched beside the 
form of his beloved, and now, in prayer, he thanked the power 
that had so stricken him, that Moina had been delivered, even thus, 
from the terrible doom to which she had, been so arbitrarily con- 
demned. 

Again he enfolded the beautiful clay, and kissed for the last time 
her forehead and ivory lids ; then, composing her form upon the 
couch, he severed a long silken tress from her head and placed it 
in his boson^ and said — " Beautiful spirit ! if thou art now hover- 
ing over the dust of my lost love, hear me! My life, henceforth 




dead to all earthly affections, I consecrate to her memory and to 
Heaven. And oh ! great power ! forgive me if aught of ven- 
geance mingle with my purpose ; but, with God's help, I will here- 
after kindle a fire before the eyes of this people, that shall tower 
above all the pyres of their ancient rites, and which shall never be 
extinofuished through all time ! " 



O' 



And well did Patrick, afterwards named the Saint, redeem his 
promise. Escaping in the seventh year of his servitude, and making 
his way to the south-western coast of Ireland, he was received on 
board a merchant vessel, which, after a voyage of three days, landed 
him on the shores of Gaul. Being desirous of receiving instruction 
to enable him to fulfil the mission to which he had devoted himself, 
he repaired to the celebrated monastery, or college of St. Martin, near 
Tours, where he remained four years, and was there initiated in the 
ecclesiastical state. 

During this time his whole thought was bent on the one great 
purpose to which he had sworn, over his dead love, to dedicate his 
future existence — the overthrow of the Druids, and the kindling of 
the fire of Christianity in Ireland. His lonely rambles over the 
mountain and in the forest, during his bondage, had been devoted, 
with but brief interruption, to prayer and meditation, and to the 
nursing of those deep devotional feelings which were stirring within 
him ; and now, in his dreams, he heard voices calling to him from 
the wood of Folcat, near the Western Sea, crying as if with one 
voice — " We entreat thee, holy youth, to come and walk again 
among us." Obedient to the call of inspiration, the Saint now bade 
adieu to his spiritual director, Saint Germain of Auxerre, and having 
had himself consecrated bishop at Eboria, a town in the north-west 
of Gaul, he pursued his way to the scene of his labors and future 
triumphs. Having visited his early haunts in Dalaradia, he landed 
with a few followers, and proceeded to the plain of Breg, in which 
the ancient city of Tara was situated, where he directed his compan- 
ions to pitch their tents, and as it was the eve of the festival of 
Easter, he lighted, at night-fall, the paschal fire. 



346 MOINA. 



It happened that oh the same evening the monarch Leogaire, and 
the assembled princes and States of the whole kingdom were cele- 
brating the pagan festival of La Beil-tinne, and as it was a law that 
all fires should be extinguished on that night, nor be again kindled 
until the great pile in the palace of Tara had been lighted, the paschal 
fire of St. Patrick, on being seen from the heights of Tara before 
that of the Druids, excited the wonder of all assembled. 

The indignant monarch instantly dispatched messengers to bring 
the offender to his presence, and the princes seated themselves in a 
circle upon the grass to receive him. They listened, however, with 
complacency to the account of the object of his mission, and on the 
following day he preached at the palace of Tara, in the presence of 
the king and the States General ; and the monarch, while listening 
to the fervent words of the apostle, murmured " It is better that I 
should believe than die ! " 

The monarch, and the Arch-Bard Dubtach became converts to the 
preaching of the Saint, and from this time his career throughout Ire- 
land was one of triumph. 

By none but gentle, and skilful methods could so sudden a revolu- 
tion have been accomplished. Had any attempt been made to assail, 
or rudely alter, the ancient ceremonies and symbols of their faith, 
their prejudices in favor of old institutions would have roused the 
nation to rally at once around their primitive creed. But by a wise 
policy the outward forms of past error were made the vehicles through 
which new truths were conveyed. The days devoted, from old times, 
to pagan festivals, were now transferred to the service of the Chris- 
tian cause — in the grove of oak now arose the Christian temple, and 
the proselyte of the new faith saw in the baptismal font, where he 
was immersed, the sacred well at which his fathers had worshipped, 
and in the consecrated candles he still beheld the venerated fire of 
his ancient religion. Unexampled indeed in the history of the Church, 
there was not a drop of blood shed on account of religion throuo-h 
the entire course of this mild Christian revolution, by which, in the 
space of a few years, all Ireland was brought tranquilly under the 
dominion of the gospel. Kings and princes — chiefs, at variance in 



MONAI. 347 



all else — and the proud Bard and Druid laid their superstitions 
meekly at the foot of the cross ; and the fire lighted by the apostle 
as he had foretold, towering above all the pyres of their ancient rites 
burns on — brighter and brighter — never to be extinguished through 
all time. 



o 



^^^'-. ^^' 



,4^ 



N r; 









'V, 



* H I A 












•^., 



•^ 

.■0' / 



N f. 



". ^^ 






o> -^c^. 






.^' 



'"^; 






'O. * , „ ^ 









^'^.^ 






o 






.-tV 



^ '^- ^.^^^ 






<^ 



i> -^^ 



V- 



.4- > 



\- 













\6^ 



..*:-'-^« 



'. -'c. 



^. Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process, 

c^ ^ Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 

^^ ' " Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 



S-.y> 



'P-. 



s- .^ 

<>^^. 



. '^ 



Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 

. , PreservationTechnologies 

^ A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

'' ^ 111 Thomson Park Drive 

Cranberry Township, PA 16066 



111 Thomson Park D 
Cranberry Township, 
(724)779-2111 



I B 



"oz 



!i>, 









■\;'^ 






'-^>- >' 





















C^ '^^ 



"--t^ 

':^, 









.^^ 



o 






<3 £^ -i o V 












.v^>. 



.^q. 



^ .0- -o, % 









• V ^ , . -* 



x^ 



.>^' 



-^^ 









"^^ .^^ 






-^ 



^-^ 



'^b. 






x^^^ 



o 0^ 



^^A v^^' 






^5 ^ \^ ^. 






'X^' <.V 









^% ^ 



*S'i. j-^ 



vO-. 



,0 









.-,s^ 



A^^■ 






#^ 



^^ <^ 



^^' ■'^^. 



-. '•■^v^.'- 









.-2^--. 



^0^ f 












.-^n:- 



0^ 



,-0 



,^^^ , . ^ " 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




017 197 247 4 



